Our lives have become leftovers and overdue books
Precariously piled porcelain plates
Novels not half read with turned over corners
Both marking the inconsistencies we otherwise chose to ignore
Because dishes only tower when the space outside my bedroom collapses
And stories seem half good with my eyes half shut
And lately that is all they ever are
For what fable is comparable to the shapes I see unconsciously
When cups and bowls are forgotten
When the inconsistencies do not matter because I am close enough to dead
But eyes seem always to open when I least like
And my teetering towers will crash soon enough
With the change I turn over like my pages to pay the fines
Because leftovers become stale
And the books are not mine to keep