Track

Antique fingerprints were left on

The sleeve. A pondering teacup

Rested for too long. My pencil

Knitted the sad chapters of relief;

Underlining the words shuffled

Past belong. A musty melancholy

Auctioned into view, the ragged

Dust jacket straddling the broken

Spine. Over ninety years old, this

Fiction seems but new. My ticket

Now a bookmark; someone’s

Crossed the line.