Gideon's Leftovers

I reached for the outlet behind the nightstand

and hit the black leatherette instead.

It’s cold and pebbled against my hand,

a dense little block of everything unsaid.

The ribbon marker is a frayed, wet string

sticking out from a chapter on locusts or kings.

It’s a strange and heavy, unwanted thing

to find in a room where the telephone rings

and no one answers. I shove the book back

into the dust of the particle-board drawer.

The spine is starting to suffer a crack

from all the people who needed it more.