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.