Picking a Font / Julie Wells


Build a pillow fort and hide out
morning coffee wrapped in down
feathers of consumerism feeding

me; I build a pillow fort for breakfast.
In my pillow library, the only book

is The New Bread Loaf Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry.
The only book. And on the cover of the only book is a photograph
of two hunter green Adirondack chairs sitting in a field.
Empty chairs sitting adjacent to each other as if conversing –
perhaps about Kundera or Light. In my fort there are no chairs

certainly no empty chairs, no empty
Adirondack chairs. I sit on a blanket.
At closer look, the chairs in the photograph
are not Adirondack. They are too
modern too few slats too contemporary

round backs. (The “chair photo”
is the property of Edward L. Brown
middle initials sucking in names
in the middle, nomenclatural waists.
I am serious. I am a letter.) And I

have coffee in my pillow fort. Awake to process.
There is dog hair everywhere. And those empty
chairs symbolize the mod plight: as if the empty asymmetrical field
symbolizes the fight of me versus me: the hunter green against the
    backdrop
of dry grass symbolizes the varied tones of humanity (we are all
    green)
and the non-radical shift of our generation. I was
just as excited about my shoes as about poetry: woven wool plaid
a mix of pale yellow and lavender and oak and black
and vintage and pointed toes and stiletto heels and we were at a bar
to hear spoken word and our friends were reading. A poet ran a poem
    by me
before the show and I learned something. I learned him. I learned
he used to be in a punk band and I wish I had been in a punk band
though my idea of social commentary in high school was complaining
about my boyfriend and getting drunk, my idea of social commentary
was Pink Floyd in my stereo driving back roads in my small town

My idea of social commentary was eating Indian food
and filling out college applications where I promised
that I was indeed well-rounded, did indeed do everything.