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…”