History Book

Leather bond, sides torn, the pages are stained
with the coffee you used to make. The engraving
rises to the surface, taught a lesson by dirt.
Inside, it crinkles, once crisp. I flip through the book
remembering all the history that lies in its inner
depths, under the flesh of ink. Chapter One,
two, three, each year of life recorded with a delicate
quill. But then, chapter 19. I run my fingertips
down the middle, sharp edges of torn papers
run in a wave down the pages. The end of chapter 19,
the beginning of 20, has been ripped out. Flipping,
the middle of chapter 20 sits blank as I pick up
my pen and take a deep breathe, beginning to write,
as the end of chapter 20 and on appears on the page.
Job.
Job.
Run.
Job.
Swim.
Celebrity.
Run.
Job.
The words keep repeating, forming a pattern of ink
down the page. Am I really that boring? Head buried
in hands, thinking, pondering as the words flow
out of my brain. Etched not in a fragile calligraphy,
but a confident scroll. Continuing to write as chapter 20
just keeps plowing on. The book, I turn over in my hands,
feeling the aged leather. Reaching over, I grab new leather
edged with gold, replace the worn leather, tossing it
in the trash. This history book is renewed.