– 145 –

The Book of Sadness

If you were expecting a weighty tome,
you'll be disappointed.
The Book of Sadness is actually
quite small—a manky paperback, in fact,
that will fit snugly in a pocket.

Perusing a dim alcove of a second-hand shop,
I latched onto it immediately.
It had seen many owners.
I spied your name, inked
in your careful, considered hand
—and my own scrawl, of course,
lurching like a drunken spider.

I wondered what page you'd got up to,
but there were so many folded corners
and abandoned bookmarks
it was impossible to tell.

I opened one at random and, yes,
the passage was bleak beyond conscience;
after each sentence, I could feel
my slim allotment of hope
draining into sand.
Indeed, it would not take much
of such ‘wrung consequence’
to leave one
‘foetal in the well's zero’.

– 146 –

At the counter I offered five dollars,
as the soft-pencilled price indicated.
‘I'm sorry, but it's actually ten,’
said old Mr P. ‘You see, it's signed.’
‘But,’ I mumbled, ‘I'm the author.’
‘Good for you,’ said old Mr P quietly,
‘good for you.’