The world informs me,
like a distracted conductor
too busy to answer my question
if this is the right stop,
that this isn't
the book of his I should read.
'This is what they had,' I say.
Before I can explain
how I liked it
but didn't love it,
They turn their back,
and I'm left to ponder the rail map.
I'd have liked to tell
of the pockets of verse
stuffed into spare corners
that thrilled me like little else
but that I tired of
vast dusty plains of women and food.
Much like Spain.
But he had already moved on,
hassling some lady about change,
she looking like she was about to cry.