Unread

The speaker on the laptop is a tinny mess,

someone in HR talking about 'synergy'

while I slide the box cutter through the tape.

I pull the hardcover out of its cardboard sleeve,

the jacket still glossy and cold from the truck.

I press my face into the middle of the pages,

taking a hit of that sharp, chemical draft—

bleached pulp and the sour tang of bindery glue.

It’s cleaner than the air in this apartment,

more hopeful than the spreadsheet on my screen.

Then the paper catches the side of my thumb,

a stiff, white edge leaving a bloodless slit.

I close the book and set it on the pile

beside the three I haven't started yet.