THE FIFTY-SEVENTH PAGE

The sad idyll of my indolent boy temporarily arrested my antic, even trivial, thoughts of vengeance.

I encountered him first on the line at the grocery store, but my interest was drawn more to the book in his hand than to his slim figure.

I usually notice anyone carrying a book and quickly lose my customary shyness as I venture to discover the title of the book.

People are eager to chat about what they are reading, so talk comes easily. In my Manhattan days, I met in this way a number of interesting people on the subways. Few found me overly-inquisitive; those who did were reading the wrong book, anyway.

When I find someone adorned with poetry, I can’t stop myself. The distribution of poetry is like the death of birds. Birds must die and their bodies must fall somewhere to earth. But where? Poetry is published and it is sold. But how? In my bookstore days, I recall ordering and stocking poetry, but I can’t recall encountering a sale of it at the checkout counter. The lad was carrying a battered copy of Edward Field’s STAND UP, FRIEND, WITH ME. It was hard to imagine where he had found a book of the sixties, but the notion of a poetry book’s decades-long survival is a joy.