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.