Lost in the Pages
April 22 2023
The bookmark
slipped out of the 2nd-hand novel
where it had lain for years,
nestled between the pages
undisturbed.
It felt like a secret missive
from the anonymous reader
who came before,
letting me know
where the book had lost his interest,
or where he intended
to pick it up again.
And not just how far he got,
but what he bought
at the Stop and Save
some random day long ago.
2 lbs of Polish sausage,
a quart of milk,
a carton of cigarettes.
And a bouquet
of supermarket flowers
for someone he loved.
I like to think
it was an impulse buy,
a heart that overflowed.
Which he gifted her
with tar-stained fingers
and a smoker's cough,
his breath a little garlicky.
I calculate the years
since the receipt was issued
and imagine what became of them.
If not a novel
then a short story
where the ending has yet to be written.
Did they stay together;
happily-ever-after,
at least for a chapter or two?
Did he buy the bouquet
for someone else
he couldn't help but fall for?
Or were the flowers for himself?
A splash of colour
in the dark apartment
where he now lived alone.
Lost in the pages
of epic novels
by gloomy Russian authors.
With scoundrels and grifters
swindlers and thugs
where justice always prevails.
In compulsive whodunits
where betrayal and lust
in some cozy cottage
seem incongruously out of place.
And in the made-up lives
of lovers and rivals,
unforgiving civil wars.
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