The Difference between the Great Poet and Myself

I spent all day looking for a book and couldn’t find it,
a book I wanted to read,
the latest book of the great poet
that the critics claim always puts them on.
He’s either very dumb or very brilliant, they say.
Maybe he’s both, I say,
but I bet he keeps up with the books he wants to read.
I bet he doesn’t make a mess with fountain pens,
or cover notebook paper with amateur hieroglyphics,
or scratch erasers down to their nubs.
He sits in a crisp white shirt and makes
his marks with ink from a blotter onto
imported vellum paper,
then hands it off with a flourish
for a secretary to type.
Maybe it’s all hype
and maybe it’s all true.
The only judge is the reader,
and right now that reader is you.