Shopping for Poetry
Hitting the poetry aisle in the
bookstore was innocent in its intent.
I wanted to look. I wanted to see.
I wanted to know who was there;
living on the shelf, taking up space.
Who reads this stuff called poetry?
So many plain packages that seemed
stuffy, stuck-up, and smittenly staid.
I wondered if maybe I didn’t belong there?
I wondered where my words might find space?
The tale ended as young and old came
to the shelf. Rummaging for stanzas
that would ring clear in their mind’s ear.
Who am I to judge me?
—
