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.