I moved a book
that pushed a book
that nudged a book,
that loosed a book
that toppled from the shelf
and fell, beheading a plant,
caused weeping and a pissing off,
metaphorically a liquid state,
then came threats, a gas I guess,
and the solid of an open hand,
smack suspended in mid-flight.
It could have been much worse
for one or all of us, my choice:
I chose it instantly, no pause,
I know on which side the butter lies.
The book I moved held up a bookshelf
on a wobbly desk supporting it.
The shelf is bolted now,
fits securely on the desk
The book has been returned
with its accomplices
to its proper niche.
I seem to be forgiven
although what it is
I’ve been forgiven for
may lie somewhere within a book
of, perhaps, psychology;
at any rate apology is free
if freely given.
The plant, as stubborn as its mistress,
seemingly survives, with a little help from me.
Something I have never done:
put Band-Aids on a little tree.
Well, we’ll see.
631 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.