A poem by Mark Saba

Image: Word by William Dane

Forty-some years ago I sat in a one-room library
at my junior high school filling out notecards
for my research paper: The Entrepreneur System.

That word had a lot of syllables, but none to match
the sweet smell of wooden bookshelves, April light
pouring in through long windows, or most keenly,

sparks that flew my way every time a girl
walked by. I could have sat there forever
copying passages from omniscient encyclopedias

and never giving a hoot about what
they said. My paper got a high grade
for its artful regurgitation, but it happened only today

that I confess to knowing the meaning
of entrepreneur. In all those years in between
I hedged the subject, opting instead to write lyrics

and fiction, knowing the gains to be
invaluable, a risky effort
that has yet to be matched.

This work was featured in issue #9

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