Poetry is dead.

At least, that’s how it feels.

I went to my big city bookstore. I walked in and admired the sprawling bookstore with endless aisles, towering shelves, and a café humming with conversation. I wandered, scanning the signs—“Fiction”, “History”, “Science”, “Cookbooks”, They even had specifics like “Chinese Lore”, and “Greek Mythology” …I searched every section, every floor. No poetry.

Finally, I asked a clerk. They hesitated, as if I had spoken in an unfamiliar language. After a moment, they typed into the store’s system and then frowned. “I think I saw it once,” they said, leading me through the maze of literature.

There it was. Half a row. Tucked away in an unmarked section.

“No label, we must have it on order,” the clerk shrugged. I expressed my disappointment at such a small selection. They responded, “No one reads poetry.” and walked away.

I scanned the books, maybe eight. Contemporary poetry, filled with fragmented thoughts that read more like and overheard internal conversation than crafted verse. The so-called contemporary. I thought to myself, I could write this in an hour.

I walked back to the counter and I asked the clerk if they could look up books about poetry forms. They sighed and then typed search words into their computer. We kept changing wording, finally, they found one. Elements and Styles of Poetry with Rules and Examples by Sally Yocom. I wrote the information down. I bought a bookmark and walked out the door. When I got home I found it online and purchased it. It was a great resource and I used it to write every type of poem it contained. I even looked up the author hoping to find more. It was her only book.

Later, I stepped into my cozy local bookstore, the kind with creaky wooden floors and handwritten staff recommendations. I searched high and low. No poetry section. Finally, in a dimly lit corner, I spotted it—a single scrap of paper, handwritten in blue ink, traced over in black and red: Poetry. It was the bottom shelf, at toe level.

Five books. That was all.

One title caught my eye—The Black Cat. I like black cats. I picked it up, opened it, flipped through the pages. A signature scrawled on the inside cover. That clinched it. I had struck gold.

At the counter, I voiced my frustration. “Why are there so few poetry books? And why are they at shoe level?”

The bookseller sighed. “No one reads poetry.”

I read The Black Cat in the car before even leaving the parking lot. The author—a retired engineer turned poet—was an unsung genius. His words, clever constraint, mostly about grammar, made me laugh and inspired my intellect. How had I never heard of him before? I looked him up online, The Black Cat Guide to Grammar through light verse by Barrie Gauther. Currently unavailable. It was the only book he had written.

Determined, I went to the library next. Surely, a place dedicated to literature would treat poetry with more respect. I searched every aisle. No “Poetry” label. Nothing between “Fiction” and “History.” After what felt like a scavenger hunt, I finally found it—half a shelf, wedged between How-to-Write books. None of those books were about poetry. It was on the second to the bottom shelf.

The bottom shelf, completely empty.

But then, a small miracle. The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson. I almost giggled with joy. I checked it out immediately.

At the circulation desk, I mentioned how difficult the section was to find and how few poetry books there were.

“No one reads poetry,” the librarian said.

Eight weeks earlier, I had mentioned to another librarian at that same library that I wrote books, and would they shelve them if I donated some? She said they had a special section on local authors. I brought in three, carefully signed. She put a note on them and left them for the head librarian to review and place in the library.

Weeks passed. I checked several times, my books did not appear in the local author section, or the poetry section.

Now, my books are missing in action, and I’m too afraid to ask what became of them.

I am afraid…

Poetry is dead.