"The Critic"

God help me, I've discovered poetry. I really like this one, especially as I work in a library and see people like  this almost daily.

The Criticby C. K. Williams, from Flesh and Blood (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux)

In the Boston Public Library on Boylston Street, where all the
bums come in stinking from the cold,
there was one who had a battered loose-leaf book he used to
scribble in for hours on end.
He wrote with no apparent hesitation, quickly, and with
concentration; his inspiration was inspiring;
you had to look again to realize that he was writing over
words that were already there——
blocks of cursive etched into the softened paper, interspersed with
poems in print he'd pasted in.
I hated to think of the volumes he'd violated to construct his opus,
but I liked him anyway,
especially the way he'd often reach the end, close his work with
weary satisfaction, then open again
and start again: page one, chapter one, his blood-rimmed eyes as
rapt as David's doing psalms.