poem of the day 06.29.16

upon seeing my first book of poetry

deleted from the library’s online card catalog

there is a disbelief at first

kind of a how could they! vibe

that is, before the feelings of failure set in

you remember what it took

to get those poems down in the first place

indignities by the bushel that made up those verses

the years it took for the fucker to come out

remember how proud you were

to have it there on that shelf?

three fiscal years in this institution and not even one read

three million people in this borough

and not one of them cares about you

that’s what you get for sacrificing sleep to the lit gods

for getting up before the sun nursing a hangover

and banging your head against a wall for the right words

deletedeletedeletedeletedeletedelete….delete

to make matters worse you check amazon.com

where the book is currently sitting

at number 10,379,247 with a bullet

clearly not the time to stop paying into that pension yet

or figuring out where to put the pool in the yard

of that big home that you jog past three times a week

should it ever go up for sale

of course, there have been worse things

stabbing at you in this weary life

bullies and jilted lovers and broken bones

shithole apartments and cars on their last legs

jobs that have led you to the brink of death

horrors you never thought that you or any loved ones

would have to go through

a deleted book full of stale sentiments and memories

is quite possibly the least of your troubles

and come to think of it you’d never thought

about that book on the shelf anyway until today

that pride from years ago turning into a dull ignorance

or new words through fresh hangovers

other books to worry about

that you can’t even get on a library shelf

it was a fool’s thought

to think that it would always be there

waiting on that perfect reader

and who knows where it is now?

who really fucking cares other than your bruised ego?

let it be some fire’s kindling

or a doorstopper on mars

let that thin tome sit in its dotage

with the other rejects on the dusty shelf

of an old age home or mental institution

that shit is dead and gone

and there’s an empty page facing you right now

you vain motherfucker

so make your next move, poet

make it count.