At The Bookstore

Wandering among the books, I have hidden
excerpts of need, not sure
who might find them. They are here
because of words you will not say:
Louisville, balsamic, today,
and others more worrisome. The storekeeper
has watched unsure what I have
done: shoplifting, graffiti, loitering. I
can see the syllables behind
his eyes: thief, vagrant, homeless
and others more difficult to pronounce.
Is this really what
you want? Me, aimless in Fiction,
lost among the Arts and Hobbies.
Giving away our desires.

Previously Published in the Chariton Review

Poems | More Poems | A Statement on Making