He sat in Barnes & Noble, writing in every book,

unbothered on the upholstered chair,

sipping his Starbucks;

perhaps he was high on adrenaline,

but I like to think it automatic writing.

He made it through FICTION / LITERATURE,

row by day,

day by row,

then moved on to POETRY.

They caught him halfway done w/ COMPUTERS,

            as if anyone cared anymore.

He'd already made his mark, literally,

across the ages.

But the police couldn't appreciate the irony

of this silent man, double chin, salt and pepper hair.

I wonder if they charged him for all the books in the store

or if he'd have begun again, the stock refreshed.

I thought he might be a professor,

            compulsively grading, little letters and qualifying lines

                     in crosses and horizons, his own fires ebbed.

But all the town had his manuscripts, the most famous,

unconventional, experimental writer I knew.

I saw him in town, later, wondered if he

was out on bail, on probation, or if

they'd let him go, wanting him senile,

hoping he'd die soon.

I thought of DuChamp

and asked for his autograph.

He coughed and walked away,

no time for his fans.

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