“I like my men with big books.”
He sits alone on a Tuesday
Listening to jazz,
Cargo jacket, tossled spiked hair
Rebellious beard.
A copy of Infinite Jest,
A notebook and pen,
A mysterious, slim volume –
Don’t be POETRY! –
Thrust out on his sharp, wood table.
I want to know what book that is,
I want to stroke his
Black, leather-bound thoughts.
Rimbaud
Collected Poems
Oh no.
I wet myself.