The book lies next to the phone,
its pages full.
Names and numbers scrawled in pencil and ink,
clinging to the worn sheets.
Slips of paper peer out from between each page,
some falling free to the floor,
daring to be ground under heavy heel.
The book is wearthered,
beaten black.
Alphabet tabs bent,
some broken.
The binding grows weak,
near to failing.
A thick, red rubberband labors to hold it shut.
Sitting beside the phone.
The dusty, sun-yellowed phone.
He enters the room,
stops and sees the book.
Stares at it,
loathing builds in his heart.
Lip curls into sneer,
cursing silently.
He turns away,
abandoning the book again.
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