Tattered Shelves

And here I am running out of ink.

My study does well to confine me
with its oaken, tattered shelves;
I’ve come to scribble, leaving the rain alone outside
And it’s gone and got itself lost.

I never let a coin drop without
it having first been flipped.
I often choose the inveterate echo
over either shiny side.

My thinking cap is brisk and knowing
full-well of its poisonous nature
I don it daily.
It is a bit tight, but

It suits me.

-B.W. Gladney

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