Ted Kooser

Reader Selected

Having just come from a lady’s etiquette class,

I am not pretty,

red from dancing, the nape of my neck still damp with sweat.

Walking up to the counter of the isolated bookstore,

I point to your book behind the counter

in the middle of a purple twilight.

I’m still in my tea-length dress and white gloves,

spanking clean as it always is

when I’ve just had it cleaned at Lucia’s.

Opening your book gingerly,

I lean against the counter and flip through your book,

then, after collecting a pile of other books,

I walk slowly to the front of the room

and approach the register,

only to find that I have no money with me.