Books lie on the black leather incline plane,
stacked on top of each other like a
small hut on a lonely hill,
no problem.
I put a plate
of juicy shredded chicken
—foil covering the top, but not the sides—
next to and above the book,
a curious new neighbor on the slope.
Gravity does not care that I have never
injured a library book and
would never want to.

With shame, I return the book,
a thin straight line of spicy red chicken juice
on the leaves,
and the librarian tells me
they’ll take care of it.