the library book

the book

is on the shelf, 

a plastic cover,

like they used to do,

holds it together.

it's been there

since nineteen-seventy five.

i've perused it

many times.

May second,

the smudge of blue

ink says.

quotes by

Oscar Wilde,

and assorted poems

and plays.

it's a library book

i checked out,

and never returned.

it's way overdue.

so many pages, coffee

stained,

with cigarette burns.

maybe tomorrow i'll

return it.

maybe.

though i'm quite finished

with it yet.