how do you keep on working
especially while I dance through
the aisles, stashing copies of my bastard books
upon your shelves
and stealing copies of my friends' books?
Is that a question or a rhythm,
something like a lady in a love song,
but more of a dance party USA jingle
with eyes of passersby wondering who am I?
Just a little scream from the poetry section,
an Elvis song on repeat in the Best Sellers area,
and a collapse of every employee,
exhausted from benign questions and stupid selections.
Just a shopping center,
just a bathroom and a dream,
just a crayon fire that lasts forever,
too many books, not enough life.
Hey Barnes and Noble
how do you keep on working
especially while I dance through your Starbucks
and hump the magazine racks in the back?
I will rip out every page 32 in the building
and settle softly in the discount of your love,
while listening to St. Joseph's by The Avett Brothers,
while simply tying to be
a bargain bin of literature that needs love, too.