Monday, September 16, 2013

The Poetry Reader

He spent another supper
at the library in the overstuffed
leather no one sits in, quietly
staring over his red wheelbarrow
at the autumn-haired librarian
who thought she was nobody.
But he imagined her in a red dress
going not gentle into the night,
and that made all the difference.

Boston Literary Magazine - Fall 2013

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