fire
what
a stupid kid
i was
back then
standing there
returning books
at my library job
nineteen years old
and smug
because i’d read kerouac
just like all the others had
because i’d written
a bunch of poems
that i declared genius
but that next to no one would read
so smug
yet too dumb
to realize that i’d signed
my life over
to student loan predators
for the kerouac
for the college campus
for a piece of paper
that it would take me another fifteen years
to even remotely justify
i must’ve looked
so stupidly content
to him
coming in that night
with a couple of books
warped beyond repair
that smelt
of hickory and mold
his eyes red
how did he take me?
placing the books on the counter
waiting for me to check them in
assess his thirty dollar fine
that maybe i’d put into the register
or maybe take because i needed gas money
to go and see a girlfriend
that i wasn’t really into
he must’ve wanted
to kill me
when i smiled and said
well, you’ll have to pay this fine
before you can use your card again
like i was waiting
on a financial windfall
i was so smug
so dumb
nineteen and king of my little disney world
standing there
with my hand out
as he softly
slowly
casually
told me
that the books belonged to his friend
that he’d died
in a fire
before tossing a crumpled twenty
at me
and walking away.
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