Overdue

I don’t have to pay for the air in this aisle,

or trade in a card for a clerk’s heavy smile.

The heaters are clanking, a rhythmic metal beat,

while I find an old scrap from a street off of Fleet.

A receipt for some pills or a bottle of gin,

tucked in the pages where a story begins.

The plastic is yellowed, the tape is gone dry,

holding the spine like a low-budget tie.

I read through the essays of men long since dead,

with nothing but silence inside of my head.