That book that your sophomoric son picked up in the library last week?

It wasn't even required for his English class.

He checked it out proudly from the public library

and resigned to the word-- reading it right away

And whenever he had a free moment:

Before dinner,

Underneath his plastic desk,

And the few moments before he drifted to sleep,

Crinkling its carefully crafted phrases.

But the words progressed in difficulty

And the storyline became harder and harder to unearth.

He wanted to love it, find its intended truth

But he placed it under his bed,

hiding until he found the courage and time to re crease the binding.

But the courage never came.

The stack of books and expectations

Crushed his ability to face the discarded book's nobility.

He lies on his bed, reading the stress lines on his face,

And recalls the book underneath his aching bones.

Horribly overdue.

Steals some loose change from your purse

And vows to return it to the library the next day.