On Friday, Billy Collins' new book of poetry finally arrived in the mail and since then I've been reading one or two poems a day to make it last. I have also been increasingly sick over the past few days; today has been the worst of it yet so I decided to just read them all as consolation.
Bad idea.
Ballistics is not the Billy Collins of yore; some of the poems in this book seem shallower than any of his past work, and the profound poems in the book deal with musings of separation and death. He just seems so sad, and while this may sound completely ridiculous, after reading virtually all of his work I can't help but feel as if I know him in some capacity.
So instead of feeling slightly better after sharing a cup of tea with my favorite poet, I have that secondhand sadness you feel when someone you love is unhappy. I just want to give him a big ol' germ-ridden hug.
I would usually insert an italicized sigh here, but in my present state it would lose the drama by turning into a hacking cough.
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