humiliation

Humiliation


Warm spring day, a tall, blue sky with dots of friendly
clouds on, when I rode my scooter into town wanted
to see if the bookshop had sold any of my collections
of poetry. They were not on shelves, the lady owner
had taken them down: “No one wants to your poems,”
she said, with an icy smile, handed me my many verses,
wrapped in dark plastic bag, the type used for garbage.
There were many in the shop that day, some smirked
others looked embarrassed on my behalf, pretended to
read. Yes, I was humiliated, but smiled and left her shop,
wondering what had made her so rude. Outside, time
rolled on, the landscape is green now, soon it will pale
and wilt under the cruel June sun; I will not let anyone
or anything spoil this mild day in May.