To Dead Joe Bolton

In honor of poetry month

Someone

Had the brilliant inspiration

To ‘publish’

One of your poems

Upon the glass

Of the window

Of a small bookstore.

Until then

I had never even heard of you.

It was on my way to the theater

To watch my daughter audition

That I broke stride

Stopping completely

To read

“Lines For Hank Williams”

Scrawled across paned glass

In black marker

Radiant in orange reflection

Of warm late afternoon sun.

The aroma 

Of stacked literature

Wafted out of the open front door.

I stood there

And read your words

Several times over

Inspired.

I didn’t know that you were dead then.

I stepped inside

Inquiring which book

I could find that poem in.

The clerk went on and on about you

With pleasure

While he searched for your only book.

I bought the last copy.

Some would call this fate.

I, on the other hand

Would like to call to attention

That it was you

That almost 

Made me late

To my daughter’s audition

That day.