irretrievable / an advisory 

a disheartened young poet

was hiding under his bed when

suddenly the thought occurred to him

to apply for part-time work at the 24 hour XtraMart,

take-up odd jobs around the neighborhood, save some money,

and "self-publish" a book containing his best poems.

six months later with five hundred bucks

in hand, the young poet ordered 5 books

from "Acme Bookbinders" on Roberson Street,

to be manufactured in his name, and by his authority.

In four months time, the books were delivered

to his home by the U.S.P.S., and he tore into the package

to behold his poems in print.

wide-eyed, he held the first copy as he would a first romance.

the slipcase was exactly what he had imagined;

its glossy paper formed to his desired weight.

the inside flap praised his accomplishments as he dictated them

with just the right smear of embellishments to approach believability, and

the flap's photo was presented at the requisite, dramatically skewed angle.

seeming to approach paradise, he swept his palm across the sheen

of the jacket, "My Poems" and wept, whispering: "thank you, Jesus,"––

and then he opened the book.

                                                *

epilogue:

expecting an influx of company, his mother straightened-up the house.

three days earlier, two cops stopped by after lunch to cut the rope.

the neatly scribed note pinned to his favorite sweater,–– no, the blue one––

read simply: “far....   too....   many....    commas.”