Way in the back of an overly lit news stand
Where I had never been
I walked past sleazy magazines displaying
A smorgasbord of skin.
The geezer at the register wore a tee-shirt
And torn Bermuda shorts.
A small TV had the World Series on, so we
Began to talk about sports.
First it was who would win the Series, then
Could any players clear their name
After being caught using drugs and would they
Ever make it to the Hall Of Fame.
We were getting on famously until I handed
Him the magazine I wanted to get.
He suddenly recoiled as if I had casually said
That I had a tarantula as a pet.
What publication was it that he felt was more
Grotesque than a pair of Uggs?
High Society, Asian Fever, Barely Legal or was
It the most recent issue of Juggs?
It was The American Poetry Review: he assumed
I was some twit fond of sitting
In a rocking chair thinking about Emily Dickinson
And our shared love of knitting.
Until that moment, it never crossed my mind
Some people have scorn
For things like poetry that to them is evidently
More pervy than porn.