William Doreski

In the coffee shop you read

a book that sold a million

copies the day it was published.

Bound in human hide, it explains

our current political angst

in prose the color of pork.

Your hair has curled with horror.

Your tears trickle like motor oil

seeping from a busted engine.

I’m afraid to sit and chat because

the pages of that book are sharp

and your hands are weeping blood

from a hundred tiny paper cuts.

Who would write such a nasty

and troubled account of events

that already cost us many

sleepless nights, our bodies raw

with useless attempts at sex?

The author died of exhaustion

after hand-binding every copy

with the hides of famous critics.

You can’t stop reading, so I sit

at the next table and open

my pocket Bible to exorcize

the demons that roil the planet

like a soccer ball. The waitron

informs me that Bible-reading

is prohibited. Her disdain

erases the last of my faith.

Feeling slightly naked, I sip

my coffee and watch your lips move.

The pages rattle like foil.

The recounted history unfolds

with seductive whispers as small

but vicious animals cruise

for crumbs beneath our tables.