Forgive me Ferlinghetti, for not buying a book
But I enjoyed the upstairs rocker
and the collection by Auden I read from.
I nearly spent money I didn't really have
on a collection by some Cincinnati writer
I haven't heard of – until I saw
he teaches at Xavier to the entitled and the pitied.
And then I read the poetry. And I was not moved.
Though the chances of running into you were nil
I nonetheless hoped to find you skulking behind
Bukowski, or perusing Corso.
The bookstore is as much a museum
as it is a library where people buy books.
Reminders everywhere if a time
when poets spoke words to lightening
rather than hid behind them
like thin, tepid grandmother's skirts.
No worries now about losing the poet
to pop culture, since poets are either
college professors or mechanics
and neither of those is interesting enough
for a reality tv show.
(Wallace Stevens was the last lawyer worth trusting.)
(William Carlos Williams was the last doctor worth listening to.)
I wanted to buy a book. Really I did.
But San Fran on the cheap
really isn't, though it's a great city to wander in;
and if you can't get by, there are shady places on the sidewalk
to sleep where passersby do not gawk
because they do not pay attention.
Market Street is for the suits,
the neighborhood bars around Little Saigon
and up and down Mission Street
are for those
who do not have the right attire to be seen
at the Embarcadero. There are no contenders there, anymore.
But I digress, Ferlinghetti.
I simply wanted to apologize
and to thank you for the chair,
and the nice cozy corner to read Auden in.
And to ask a simple question –
but I have forgotten what it was.
