I went to the Bookstore today (can't do tablets or laptops when smoking cigars and ...also hate tv...don't like the way it makes me feel or other people look) In downtown Boulder, Colo Which, if you've never been Displays fresh prints of Dave Eggers And Edward Abbey In an 1899 erected structure That formerly hosted Ballroom dances Orchestras And secret societies It's not Powells in Portland, Ore (old school state abbreviations... deal with it) But it's better for me Because I'm here And it was a beautiful day Even after losing at chess to a brilliant fool just outside I couldn't help myself From browsing the poetry section In its entirety (Only here for the $3.75 copy of the Poetry Foundation's monthly) And I noticed an increase In fresh copies of Hafiz Same for Bukowski And Ginsberg Keats was nowhere to be found Typically, Shakespeare, Whitman, Wordsworth...are everywhere I wondered if the American compilation by Garrison Keillor is worhwhile There were dozens And dozens Of masters That I have not spent time with Not "spent time" Perhaps read a bit But not, connected with enough that I could say...I got it Not a fully aligned get But an education And appreciation To one who has pushed the craft in their own way Or left me weeping at brilliance of love and language But I resisted said temptation Of rampant reckless bookbuying And got my magazine But on my drive home In the far East reaches of the county (Boulder's real estate no longer grants us commons much access) I stopped at tiny used book shop Bought an old copy of D. H. Lawrence poetry for a few bucks And by the time I got home To take inventory of tea Of coffee Of wine and cigars
I was rather pleased Pleased with myself For I looked forward To the read To the sky To living soul free Once again