I’ve never read William Faulkner,

and this leaves me out of certain conversations.

Although sometimes I have the guile to fake it—

I keep the response simple, I say, I liked it, or,

You know, I just couldn’t get into that one.

What do literary lies matter anyway?

I find others highfalutin when they

sip their cocktails and pontificate great works.

I just want to talk about the weather—

simple sunlight on my shoulders as I wake in the morning.

I worry though that people might turn me:

that I could be made into old pages,

crisp between fingers and easy to rip. I’d be left aside

for the men who know how to fix broken binding—

might try to rearrange me in a way that is smart.