I should perhaps say that this post isn't about the "poem" below, so much as the link to a New York Times book review. If you've never read any Billy Collins it will mean nothing to you.
Some days, all you can do is
pick up a book by Billy Collins
and wonder what life might be like
if you were in his shoes, the easy
comfy slip-ons a poet tends to wear
at readings, when a glass of water
placed strategically on a table to
one’s left becomes the one thing
worthy of desire more than words.
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