After Gatsby and Catcher
and Gaddis it didn’t look back.
It honed its approach for cell-phone mini-books,
then buffed up, tried on smirks,
and tramped past a bust of Jonathan Franzen.
If this was its coming-out party, it mainly peered inward.
It wanted to jostle a reader’s heart
into snare drumming for bit
players on side streets.
Fidgety, bored, it donned cowboy hats
till it grew antennae and crawled
upstairs into your bed.