Ink

He gave me a book,
still uncracked on my bookshelf
next to some textbooks. And I wonder now
what his final thoughts were,
and think perhaps they may
have been about his
wasted gift.

His gift, and my heart’s mortality
termites beneath my home,
and I write
poetry on my wrists, no
more paper left after the
mites hit here.

I write, but the constant worry plagues
me. A concern that it will rain
or I will sweat
and the lines of poetry
lining my limbs will
run together.