With yellowed paper, stiffened ancient glue
my paperbacks are falling into pieces;
without a cover for the things I do
the chance of survival that decreases
each day reminds me of the volumes that
I read when I was young and now cannot
reread because they have become decrepit.
Each day I lose some volume as I blot
the copybook that bookends with the debit
the passing years have brought. Although my spine
is not yet broken, how can I feel mellow
when drinking in my papercups old wine
while coverless my years are turning yellow?


3/3/06

gershon hepner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paperbacks/