With yellowed paper, stiffened ancient glue <br />my paperbacks are falling into pieces; <br />without a cover for the things I do <br />the chance of survival that decreases <br />each day reminds me of the volumes that <br />I read when I was young and now cannot <br />reread because they have become decrepit. <br />Each day I lose some volume as I blot <br />the copybook that bookends with the debit <br />the passing years have brought. Although my spine <br />is not yet broken, how can I feel mellow <br />when drinking in my papercups old wine <br />while coverless my years are turning yellow? <br /> <br /> <br />3/3/06<br /><br />gershon hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paperbacks/
