I think I liked Camus, too

I like the classics. 

King Lear and Milton's Paradise

Where corrupting the soul

And confusing the mind

Offer respite for the land

And the huddling weary

Can't say I've read many of them

Pride and Prejudice

Ulysses and Little Women

The thick novels dustily

Mumble alongside advertisements

And the telephone book keeping

My rickety Cassio level. 

I've opened them, sure

Once in an azure moon

When the time prickles

The insides of my eyelids

And the lust for escape

Overcomes the comfort of rest

But I do not call myself a literacist. 

I read the headlines and reviews

And meander past the Gwinnett County Library

Every Friday evening

As I wander towards the dark apartment

That rests quietly in a tomb of her sisters.

Maybe one day I'll finish the list

Growing heavier and brittle

With each shakily scratched name

Permanently dyed into its skin

As if the promise of action

Implies the purity of effort.

But I know better. 

The fantasies of the world traveler

Do not compare to the bite of a crisp apple cider

That costs just as much

As one of those poor, misled stories. 

And we'd all be better off

If instead of downloading torrents of saccharine

At the cry of one,

We would soldier forward into the tack of paper,

Armed with pen and ink,

And remember.

For what better service may a man have

Than facing fearful odds

For the ashes of his father

And the temples of his gods.