Least of My Worries

Least of My Worries

Black lines emanate
From scratched symbols
Comforted inky textiles
Handled by thimbles

Spool off a roll of
Thin paper pages
Ornate hardcover colored
To ripple through the ages

What does a busy man say
When the pretty book is mislaid?
“That pretty book with its textile flurries
Was the very least of my worries.”

Spilled off a stagecoach
On the street’s approach
It slams to the pavement
Though the words aren’t yet faded

Submissions once were divvied
By highest value entry
Now they’re laying in the road
In a caustic gutter’s hold

What does a busy man say
When the pretty book is mislaid?
“That pretty book with its textile flurries
Was the very least of my worries.”

Butyric salts and acid
Intended its kind facets
Now bathed in a sharp oil drain
Deprived of purpose and in pain

It’s weak and wet and torn
The book for itself mourns
Falling apart at its seams
Left to melt where malady teems

What does a busy man say
When the pretty book is mislaid?
“That pretty book with its textile flurries
Was the very least of my worries.”

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