A Comment to a Customer
You ask me why I have not read your favorite story.
Sir! of the esteemed elder generation,
Can you not understand
The choices facing mine?
Just think of all the multitudes
Of books left crying out to us unread
—millions more than called to you—
And more made every day.
The cumulative growth of ages
Piles on until the floor,
The groaning floor,
The common ground is shattered. . . !
Splint'ring into a million sub-fragments:
Islands of man
That join together only in the base.
The very magazine you hold proclaims this!
Perhaps you would read poetry,
But there is no plurality
No consensus on form or quality
Left large enough to pay the printer's fee.
But tits appeal to all.