Is it such a heinous crime to want to know my place?

A notion of what’s gone before and what I’ve yet to face?

Is it so surprising I should leave marks in my wake?

Must I be despised for each impression that I make?

I have no wish to be cast adrift in the midst of this adventure,

But to reach the end without getting lost, or attracting any censure.

All I ask is that you do not fly into a rage,

When at the end of my chapter, I fold the corner of the page.

It’s barely different, after all, to turning down the bed,

Perhaps I ought to leave a mint-choc wafer there instead?

Then, next time I climb between the covers of my novel,

It would be all melty like a chocolate Belgian waffle.

Clearly this would do more harm to my publication,

Far better just a simple crease and no more aggravation.