at the bookstore

I walked into the book store and worked my way into
the poetry section.

Bukowski
Frost
Cummings

Mary Angelou (I once dreamed of sailing her poetry in a fiery ship
through the hudson river)

Other nights I've had nightmares.

Over my shoulder, a beautiful
brunette
skillfully goes from
book to book
pretending
to be into some newfound interest.
maybe she does yoga and has a small dog
named bubbles and a boyfriend named matt

she avoids me.
I pretend not to care.

many many others in that
poetry section

others
who have gone insane and
smiled upon death
few who have wormed
through the walls of asylums.

"I'm a genius!" they yell.
how damned RIGHT they are!

the sky
the flowers and
the earth
beneath them

these poets have
used it all.

All the Paris and Romes and
many many Greek Gods

They wrote the whole damned universe.

I sneaked a look at
her legs but
quickly
turned
away

wouldn't be fair for matt.
what dogs men are, I thought.

no need to mention bubbles.

a few minutes later I found myself reading a
book about love and relationships.

I got the fuck out of there.