What Comes Next

I read the last line twice — I always do,

some stall, some small delay before the close.

Then set it face-down on the nightstand. Two

months of reading, finished. The prose

all done. The lamp still on. The ceiling same

off-white as ever. Pipes ticked in the wall.

I'd called the ending — seen the frame

coming from a week out. Still. All

of it finished now. The spine had cracked

in places, white, from being held open.

I lay there with the lamp on. Tracked

the ceiling. Let the quiet deepen.

Turned the light off. Lay in the dark. The town

outside still going. The book face-down.