Word Wounded

 

He reads, wondering in the pauses,

discomfited in his cosy office

cocooned, odour of musty books.

Desk drawers layered with words

and words’ associates, foxed files,

cards, the remains of lost causes,

even quiz questions and Scrabble tiles,

almost forgotten teaching aids.

 

Letters nestle next to photographs,

moot messages from people past.

He finds certificates awarded,

an unopened box of paper clips

and press clippings in the scourings

relegated to these dark drawers

with keepsakes, his own words discarded,

miscellaneous detritus he sees

 

as a deceased person’s pathos.

He realises these bookmarks

hushed between the pages of his life

have passed throw out tests before,

scraping in with lowly scores,

their existence proof and more.

Now he weighs, once again, their worth,

saves them, his heart brimmed with strife.