vademecum

you are the book i swore was just one more chapter
at 11:40 on a work night,
the lamp still on at 2 a.m.,the alarm already a rumor,
and me bargaining with myselflike a man who has never once
in his whole life
put you down on time

you are the reference i reach for without looking —
the heavy one on the nearest shelf,
spine out,always within arm’s length,
where i go to look up
how to be patient,how to apologize,
how a grown man is supposed to spell afraid
(and you always know. and you never make me feel stupid for asking)

somehow you are also the first one —
the Scholastic book fair paperback,the flashlight under the covers,
Choose Your Own Adventure at seven years old
and every ending was the wrong one
until it wasn’t… turn to page 56 —
the book that made me fall for the whole idea of turning pages,
that taught me a story could be a place you live

i have read you so many times now
the spine gives up its secrets without a fight,
creased white where i keep coming back,
corners folded soft as cloth,
coffee ring on the good part,

a sentence underlined three times
because the first two did not feel like enough
and you open up, on your own,
to exactly where i needed

but mostly — god, mostly —
you are the journal someone handed me years ago
with the tag still tied to the ribbon,
and i didn’t know yet what to put in it,
so i put everything:
the good days in careful handwriting,
the bad ones pressed so hard they carved through to the next page,
the heartache, grocery lists, half-poems,
the things i have never said out loud
to anyone
but you

and here i am, a man who writes poetry on a whim,
trying to write a book about a book
with the same twenty-six letters everyone else gets
and they are not enough,

they have never been enough —

tonight you’re reading in bed,
one knee up, the dog wedged beside you,
and i am not reading anything at all,
just watching you mark your place
with your finger
like you’re not done quite yet