Sentence Fragment

The grocery store had a rack of paperbacks

with covers of mountains and bright, bold names.

I touched a spine and felt my stomach drop

like I was looking at a pile of wet charcoal

after the fire had finished with the house.

On my nightstand, there is a book about a sea captain.

A yellowed bookmark is stuck at page forty-two,

right in the middle of a description of the wind.

It’s been there since the winter the heat went out.

Now the cover is just a place to set my coffee.

The brown ring of the mug has soaked through the jacket,

blurring the author's face into a smudge of tan.

I don't have the heart to find out if they made it to shore.

I’m too busy watching the steam rise and vanish,

wondering when I lost the patience for a plot.