Apart from his writing,
Which always seemed to stop
Short of going somewhere,
He spent most of his time
Wandering from used bookstore
To bookstore looking
For cheap editions, till one day
He happened upon a slender volume
Of his he had forgotten
He’d once inscribed and gifted
To an elder, much better-
Known poet whose work he admired
Almost as much as his own,
And which now lay half-buried
Under a stack of thicker, more
Impressive-looking tomes of poetry,
All penned by that very same distinguished
Gentleman poet who--would you have it?--
Just happened to be quite dead:
Had he too, wasted his life?
