I was supposed
to be working
but nobody came
I stood there
alone
surrounded
by tomes
of famous
and not, of
fiction and
plot,
slowly looked
around,
the store was
bare and
no one was
there, on
the street
there were
no sounds,
it was as if
I was in a
magical place
filled with books
and more books
in every space
artfully arranged
cookbooks and
help books and
even Ayn Rand
as my eyes
found Steinbeck
and carefully
scanned
his terse hot
language
and mystic
verse,
I don’t know
where the
time went
for when I
discovered
the poet’s book
I was wildly
intent
upon reading
his every word,
not like me
you say, but
you have not
heard the best
of things to come:
I found myself
simply mystified
my heart and
soul and life
untied and
given up in awe,
I could not really
believe what
I saw, the prose
of a master from
long ago,
written just maybe
a stone’s throw
away from the
door of the shop
where I read,
living and breathing
the rhymes that he
said, and when it was
time to say goodbye
pack up my goods
and wonder why
nobody came to
see me that day,
it seemed to be
the only way
for my seminal
introduction,
I will never
be the same
and my poetry
has become
the game
of love,
of giving
forgiving
and praising
the dove,
scrapping
the flight
of fancy today
I have come
home
to write
and pray…
©J.W.WINSLOW 9/1/09