The Appendix

Three months of carrying this weight in my bag,

the spine creased and white like a scarred-over knee.

I finally reached the part where the hero stops running

and the story just pales into a list of names.

There’s a thumbprint of dirt on the very last word,

a smudge of chocolate or grease near the printed 'Fin'.

It wasn't mine. I found a slip of paper inside,

a grocery list from whoever owned this book before.

Eggs, detergent, and something called 'bitters'.

A life lived in the margins of a war that wasn't real.

I close the cover and feel the sudden, heavy silence

of a house where the characters have all gone home.