Even with my friend Catherine Perkins
in full carnival-barker mode—
Do you like poetry? How about photography?
Kevin’s book about growing up on a tobacco farm
is fantastic!—I manage three measly sales
in three hours. Most folks are here, clearly,
to feed their bodies, not their souls,
& who can blame them? The tomatoes 
are succulent, the peaches make me blush.
I buy two bags full myself.

Still, I say from the darkness of my heart,
if only I were Silas House,
they’d be all over me!

I sat within view of him, see, last year
at the Kentucky Book Festival, watching
as his novels & his excellent new poetry collection
flew off the table like just-saved souls
into the loving arms of Jesus.
I swear I did my damnedest not to be bitter
& almost succeeded.

Catherine tries to console me—
It’s his Kentucky accent. I could listen to him all day
& believe every word—& somehow it doesn’t help.

But just as I’m grasping at the straws of my dignity,
three kind, open-hearted & highly discerning people
stroll by, & without the slightest hint of pity
purchase my book, ask me to sign it,
say they look forward to reading it.
These are the moments in which I sense
what a fine thing it is to be alive,
to be here on this gorgeous warm day
with the most delightful breeze blowing,
surrounded by jars of fresh local honey,
crusty loaves of artisanal sourdough & ears of corn so sweet
they will make you cry.