When I was just starting to cut my teeth on reading,
foraging for books like an ant for sugar,
I came across Walden Two, a faded edition
from the '60s with a cover so old it could crumble.
I hated the book. I'm not even sure if I finished it,
or left it shamed on my bookshelf
where it stays today. But I wish now
that I had asked where it came from.
From which airport which of my parents bought it.
How they read its gooey utopian premise.
Whether their hopes had been as high as mine.
Whether I freed it from the shelf
at the end of a previous sentence.