My bedside tables stacked with pills,
Of names I can’t pronounce,
The books once there I loved to read,
Now fester on the couch.
And there they rot with weakened spines,
And crinkle in regret,
And weep at shallow footsteps of,
A man they’ve never met.
“Of mice and men you are the first,”
Said Steinbeck in a violent burst,
“You left me here to die of thirst,
Now grapes of wrath shall bleed,”
“A wasted Spring in Paris spent,
With you, a man I thought a gent,”
Said Hemingway, who now laments,
“The bell, it tolls for thee.”
“You helped me solve the speckled band,
And seemed to be an honest man,
How did I miss your secret plan?
For shame, I’ve been deceived.”
“We couldn’t know you’d leave.”
By Ben Phillips