Like moss, grown brown
and crisp beneath his feet,
dry rustling pages
shiver in his hands,
the clock ticks on
a kitchen wall,
dim street-lamp light
paints silvery stripes
across the hardwood floor,
no sound of traffic from
the street—everyone’s asleep—
just one more page,
and then he’ll go to bed,
just one more page,
and maybe one page more.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
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