The Smell of a New Book on a Winter's Day
I step out of the convenience store bathroom,
The piss on the soles of my shoes makes squeaks
As I traverse across the hard floor and make way for the door.
I swing it open and step outside.
Standing there, seemingly having nowhere to go,
Is a young black man with a du-rag and heavy black coat.
He’s smoking a cigarette and simply staring here and there.
I find my woman’s car and climb into the passenger seat.
The heater is blowing like heavy dog breath and I shiver
One quick shiver to ward off the chill I brought in
From the outside world.
She drives and we head for a Barnes and Noble.
I want to buy a new poetry book so I can get
A little more inspiration and exercise this
Flaccid brain of mine.
That and there’s nothing like the smell
Of a new book on a cold Winter’s day.
I pick out a book, one by Bukowski, my hero,
And we get a cup of Joe for the road.
I’m not going to read the book just yet;
I get carsick if I don’t keep looking at the road.
When we get home, however, I’ll kick off these shoes
And open up words from a dead muse,
Become enriched and inspired,
And smile a smile for another soul like mine.