In my room Shakespeare lay open, rigid on the floor,
the coarse-grain cover glued solid on the floor,
while sweet notes flowed gently through my loft
from the vinyl spinning stolid on the floor.
I could not bear to read another word of bastardy and base
anymore, so I placed him coverlid on the floor,
where his problems hid like the ridges on the roof of my mouth
or dust underneath my bed, deeply hid on the floor.
I left Shakespeare open that night
for the pages to grow yellow and squalid on the floor.
-Samantha Derleth