true story (sort of)
there’s free wifi at the local library.
as I sat reading the online Express,
checking out ‘plenty of fish’ (no messages)
scoping the avenue through
diet club posters on the window,
hoping to glimpse the love of my life
(unrequited) passing by,
(no luck, I must have blinked and missed her)
a local writer, a minor poet
who bore an aura of significance
and a ‘bag for life’ bulging with books
bustled in through the exit door.
he did not notice me.
after laughter at the counter,
‘I’ll see you Tuesday. have a nice day.’
the poet swept out regally,
heading for his bike, a Pashley,
chained up outside Sainsbury’s.
again he did not notice me.
I posted a flirty introduction
to an Okcupid ‘possible’,
logged off and checked the poet’s oeuvre -
two slim volumes, pristine condition,
glowing blurbage on the cover.
date stamps peppered the slip -
seventeen on one,
seventeen on the other,
I placed his anthologies on the counter,
‘he’s popular - must be worth a gander.’
the librarians shared knowing glances,
one winked and breached a confidence,
‘strictly between you and me,
he tours all the local libraries,
takes out his books on Tuesdays,
brings them back on Saturdays...’
I raised an eyebrow in surprise.
‘...and don’t think he’s the only one.’