Ross Gay

The Book of Delights is exactly the cup of something delicious I wanted today.  I'm savoring it slowly--a collection of essay-ettes by Ross Gay, the poet I hadn't heard of before Pam directed me to his book.

I'm only halfway through the book and several essays are worth copying verbatim, but I'm only going to copy the closing paragraph of one right now to give you a taste of the freshness of his voice in finding something to be delighted by every day.


#24: Umbrella in a Cafe

(closing paragraph)

A guy on his way out, after buying his Americano and scooting by my big red bobbing foot, and smiling softly at me, and me at him, looked at the drizzle through the big plate-glass window, put his coffee down, opened his umbrella, put it over his head, picked up his coffee, then realized (I presume)                                                             that he was still inside this bakery.  (The window was very clean.) I saw him giggle to himself, realizing, I think. what he had done--let me interrupt to mention that a man with a sack of some sort slugs over his shoulder just entered Choc-O-Pain and exclaimed, "Good morning, Jersey City family!"--and so lowered his umbrella and walked quickly out, with a smirk that today I read as a smirk of gentleness, of self-forgiveness.  Do you ever think of yourself, late to your meeting or peed your pants some or sent the private e-mail to the group or burned the soup or ordered your corrode with your fly down or snot on your face or opened your umbrella in the bakery, as the cutest little thing?