In the shop, I paid for the new book of poetry,
Went to the page where the receipt was tucked,
Read, on my auto walk to the door,
Out through the door.
Read my way over sidewalk to curb,
Aimed at my car,
There across traffic busy enough,
That I paused the book, and
Raised up my face, to watch for a gap.
I wondered here, as I planned my path,
Between oncoming bumpers,
What the author would think if I failed to check,
Had stayed in the words and got nailed,
Thoroughly,
By a truck at a speed;
My focus rapt by
A really good phrase that made me pause,
And read again,
Somewhere around the yellow line.
Would the author be sad, but also
Sort of,
Pleased?
Would this rival a painter having paintings thieved?
Yes, I suppose having your book stolen is also a thing,
Competing with the Bible and the Guinness Book of World Records;
The most popular books to steal, according to the internet,
And hey–is this Bible stat listed in the Guinness book?
Is the Guinness stat listed in itself?
How does God feel about all of this?
Back to the lifted book of verse:
What if the thief is nothing,
But a vicious poetry dealer,
Hucking his loot from the back of his van,
An opportunist,
In an alley,
Under a bridge,
At night?
The poem was fine,
Reread in my car,
Drove safely home.