true story (kinda)

true story (ish)

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, and,

‘I’ll see you Tuesday. have a nice day.’

the prodigy swept out regally,

heading for his bike, a Pashley,

padlocked outside Sainsbury’s.

again, he didn’t notice me.

I mailed a flirty introduction

to an Okcupid ‘possible’,

logged off and checked the poet’s oeuvre –

two slim volumes, condition pristine

glowing blurbage on the cover

from family and friends.

inside,

date stamps peppered the slip –

seventeen on one,

seventeen on the other,

‘he’s popular – must be worth a gander.’

as I placed his anthologies on the counter,

the librarians shared knowing glances,

one winked at me, and confidentially,

‘strictly between you and me,

he tours all the local libraries,

takes out his books on Tuesdays,

brings them back on Saturdays…’

I Roger Moored an eyebrow,

‘…and don’t think he’s the only one.’