On my bed, there is a detective novel entitled The Dead that
I am three chapters into reading; after the boredom of the first
Two, the words are bleeding into each other but, I’m determined
To find out who killed that prostitute.
In the kitchen, balanced on the toaster, is a collection of poetry,
The title of which I forget. I seem to have cherry-picked the best
Bits and discarded the rest with the loose intention of finding out
What the other writers wanted to say.
On the dining room table you’ll find Shakespeare’s Collected Works
That has been treated unkind, the binding is fragile, unstable. I left
It to rest on the table with the intention of finding out if there was
Method in Hamlet’s madness.
On the wall in my study, at eye-level, so when I rise it’s the first
Thing there to greet my eyes is a post-it. Will you ever finish a book?
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