The small book
Had bounced around
From place to place
For nearly three decades now.
It spent its early life
On a nightstand
By a bed,
Thoughts scribbled into it
Most frequently.
Then when its pages
Were full,
It sat proudly upon a bookshelf.
It had been packed
And moved
And unpacked again,
More times than
It could count.
The last packing though
Had been the hardest.
For it sat in the dark,
Squeezed tightly
Among its fellows
For a very long time.
And while it was
Sheltered
From the elements directly,
A dankness seeped in
So that when it
Finally emerged again,
It was infused with
The odor of decay
And the smell of mildew
That crinkles the nose.
Though it tries to fight it
With sprays and perfumes
Always
That putrescence lies beneath.
