There were days when I could read,
If only for a little a while.
The whining dog next door acts as if,
I have no need.
And yet I long to read,
Bleeding for the pages long past.
For pages are company,
Pages drown one in the distant past.
It could be about a starship,
It could be about a girl doing skinny dips.
But often it is of literary note,
Not the story of old men's gloats.
So mote the days when I will read again,
Even if it kills my shins.
