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.