Vestige

Taylor Napolsky

My dad had just discovered

Bukowski, and asked me if I’d 

heard of him. Yes, sure,

he’s famous, but I haven’t read 

him. Then he wanted to bring me the book,

bestow it on me, convinced that 

I’d like it. And you know

what, he was probably right. It’s pretty cynical

stuff, he summed up.

Okay but do I want this copy?

Am I going to read it, and

anyway I have a shortage of

storage space. Plastic drawers. Shelving.

Going through his bag, about twenty 

cases of earplugs were found, along with the one

set he repeatedly used, revoltingly stained,

should’ve been long-since tossed

out. You may as well then, add the book

to his luggage to bring home, but, thing is,

I learned some of the pages are a sickly green 

with fungus. If Dad were here to gift it to me,

I wouldn’t accept. I’ve heard about the

hell that is mold. I know how

my room would nurture it.