Leaving Off - Jan 11 2024

 

Leaving Off

Jan 11 2024

Where you left off.

The dog-ear, book mark,

or open to the page

face down.

You leave traces,

creased paper

broken spines.

And the tower of books

stacked helter-skelter

on the bedside table

you grew impatient with,

book-marked

with whatever came to hand;

will sit

unfinished

until sufficient time has passed

to forgive your distractible mind.

As if you'd simply stepped away

as soon as he started to bore,

leaving the author mid-sentence

open-mouthed

alone among the guests.

Distracted

by the beautiful woman

you couldn't take yours eyes off

from the moment she walked in.

But in real life, of course

you'd tough it out and listen;

eyes glazing over,

ice melting

watering down your Scotch,

brain wandering off.

But wishing someone . . . anyone

would come to your rescue.

Would grab you by the elbow

and snatch you away

while you glanced quickly back,

shrugging your shoulders, and flashing a smile

as if it couldn't be helped.