Baker / Porter

I sift through the boxes of free books and find myself disappointed

By how many poetry collections I lift and place aside.

I’m looking for a book–

A real book,

A prose book–

Anything other than poetry or German grammar.

Instead, I find stacks and stacks of poetry,

Slim and sleek,

Misleadingly thick,

Well-loved, with the dust jacket torn down the front.

A signed copy of an award-winning–

But aren’t they all award-winning?–

Collection, compiled and autographed with love.

(I leave this one in its place.)

I hate poetry,

And yet, I am a poet.

Because poetry is easy,

Poetry is personal,

Poetry is something not quite unconventional enough.

(E.E. Cummings will always be more esoteric;

Frost will always be more beautiful.)

Poetry is a window to somewhere else,

Sometimes missing a few panes

And sometimes with a paper cutout taped on to scare away the birds

Before they fly too close and perish.

I’ve attached a printout to our dorm kitchen window,

But I’ve never seen a bird in the alley that it faces.

I spent two years in high school taking notes on birds

To compete in the Ornithology event,

But I can’t name a single bird by sight

(Unless it’s a male Mallard,

A duck with a distinctive green head).

This reads like a confessional–

It is not.

But, then again, I am always saying things I don’t mean,

Like “guess I’ll die”

And “I hate poetry.”

As a writer (a poet, an author),

I am obsessed with the nuances of synonyms.

So maybe I don’t hate poetry–

Nor do I hate poets,

Despite how many times I scorn their work in my search for more reading material.

(I read enough, too much–

I’ve gone through all of xkcd

And the Wikipedia pages for every horror movie I can name.

I am not brave enough for horror.)

But I might resent poets, just a little.

I might envy them for choosing a “fun” job,

An “interesting” job that keeps them true to themselves.

(I have spent enough time agonizing over these lines

To know that this too is an untruth.)

I find nothing of interest on the free book table,

So I pick up my bag and leave.

Later, I venture into the Civil and Environmental Engineering wing

And obtain a free book about the telegraph.

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Language Loss and Found (Kind Of)

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What Do White People Call Their Parents? - and other stories