You, so patient, a clerk

At Barnes & Noble

…Noble? Maybe.

Saintly? Absolutely,

As that woman you helped

Find a book,

Told you—in detail—why she

Loved the previous works of an

Author

You could not care any less

About.

You, so patient, a barista?

No, a book seller, working in the

Barnes & Noble cafe;

Working the coffee machines;

Not burning the milk.

You only know the drinks on the menu,

But people ask for things,

Special things, as though you

Are

A barista and not going for your

MFA in pre-millennial Norwegian surrealism;

They ask you, one after the other,

Why you don’t accept Starbucks

Gift cards.

You, so patient, middle-aged man

Still rocking a soul-patch and open flannel

Over

T-shirt, your Vans hinting you skate

Or

You used to

But now you’re a stepdad to two

Mostly sweet kids

And you work the later shift so you can

Take them to school

So your wife can work the morning shift

In the ICU—

Which you are happy to do: stacking books,

Sending employees on their 15s,

And waiting until Thursday night

After work band practice

In Dino’s garage.

You, so patient, in the Info Booth,

A clerk,

Trying to help a man—

Masked and hard to understand—

As he repeats things like

“It’s a mystery, about submarines,

But I think it’s a western, also,

Let me call my friend, Charlie, he

Recommended

It to me, he lives in Yuma now,

To get away from the cold rains we get

Here,

Hey, Charlie, what’s the name of that,

Charlie, what’s the, it’s Donald, yeah,

Donald,

Yeah, what was the name of that book you

Recommended,

Yeah, the submarine western…

Oh, okay, take care.

He doesn’t remember the name,

But I guess it’s not about submarines…”