At my local used-book store
There is a small poetry section
Filled with dusty old volumes
Of Whitman, Eliot, and Dickenson.
There are newer poets too,
Regardless, they are barely touched.
Each time I visit
The selection has not changed.
In fact, the spaces from where
I pulled my last purchases,
Nearly a month ago,
Are still there.
So is the hard-covered Frost
And the book of Yeats
I thought was a Pocket-Poets Collection.
Normally, I am searching for new-to-me poetry,
Variety to whet my palate with,
Finding various poets I have not read.
Yet this time I searched the shelves
For my new friend Carl Dennis
Who's poetry has been like Rooibos
On a cold spring day,
Warming my soul
And awakening my senses.
Yet near the spaces I left
Nearly a month ago from today,
Mr. Dennis cannot be found,
And I am faced with the same volumes
I faced a month ago, variety that
I normally look for, just not today.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
At my local used-book store
There is a small poetry section
Filled with dusty old volumes
Of Whitman, Eliot, and Dickenson.
There are newer poets too,
Regardless, they are barely touched.
Each time I visit
The selection has not changed.
In fact, the spaces from where
I pulled my last purchases,
Nearly a month ago,
Are still there.
So is the hard-covered Frost
And the book of Yeats
I thought was a Pocket-Poets Collection.
Normally, I am searching for new-to-me poetry,
Variety to whet my palate with,
Finding various poets I have not read.
Yet this time I searched the shelves
For my new friend Carl Dennis
Who's poetry has been like Rooibos
On a cold spring day,
Warming my soul
And awakening my senses.
Yet near the spaces I left
Nearly a month ago from today,
Mr. Dennis cannot be found,
And I am faced with the same volumes
I faced a month ago, variety that
I normally look for, just not today.
