I got a book
From a second-hand credit card,
Left the money on the kitchen counter
To pay for what I owe.
Near the bananas and the day-old resentment,
The marbled surface of blacks and beiges
Reflect the grass green bills,
Curling up towards the skylights
Like plastic plants trying to be real,
Waiting for their made-up plastic permanence.
The book sits in my hand now,
In a weather-worn chair,
Waiting to be open,
Waiting for its made-up public permanence.
I pay for what I owe,
It feels like I gave more,
Left behind more.
What do I really owe?
Do I owe my time to the resentment,
To the well-worn dust cover,
To the plastic impermanence?
Im probably overthinking it all,
Sitting at my kitchen counter,
Staring at the plastic.
What was it all for?
To get a book.
