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Looking Upward

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Wed Dec 12th, 2018

At Barnes & Noble the poetry shelves

sleep a thousand volumes of poetry,

yet with a few exciting exceptions

like Shakespeare, Pushkin, and Dickinson,

there’s just ink meandering on paper,

recording blatant narcissism

and damaged detritus of imagination

stillborn from a grinding printing press.

Yes, one may occasionally find a line,

but a poem is beyond most poets.

My cynicism is not gratuitous—

it’s sprung from an impatient heart

that longs to discover the crescent moon

glowing with cadence on an inky page.