February First

The leather felt like a promise in the store.

Thirty dollars for a spine that wouldn't break,

and paper thick enough to hold the truth.

I wrote about the gym and the early rising.

Now it’s just a flat spot for my coffee.

The condensation is blooming in a circle

right over the header where I promised

to be a different version of a man.

The blue ink is blurring into the brown stain.

The rest of the pages are as white

as a hospital sheet,

waiting for the days I didn't use.