There’s nothing pretty about it:
They’ll claim a book,
Brand nicknames on all three sides
As if the book might walk away
Or lose itself in tall grass, as dumb as a cow.
The bookmark? A slice
To the top of the page, unthinking
As a kick to a rock on a dirt road.
And some so quick to break the spine
The way they’ve broken hearts
With too few words, or with false ones.
If the book is large,
It can be laid flat lazily on a desk
So they wouldn’t even have to touch it,
Just lift a finger to flip a page, halfheartedly,
Like signally a truck to dump it’s load.