I might be an open-book

I might be an open-book

But I’m more than a page-turner

There might be

Little meat on my bones

But there is heft

To the weft of words

Spilt across the page

They may look familiar

But their configuration

Will often lack the commonality

Of cliche

The stricture of rhyme

The interaction of

Meter as affectation

Present in so many

Of my contemporaries

That last comment,

The tongue-in-cheek

Self-mockery,

Disguised as hubris,

(I may have that backwards)

Is why

I spend so much time

Alone

But at least I can live with myself.