I occasionally frequent a poetry reading in a well-known college town perhaps a bit outside the capital city I live in. (Hey kids! Being vague is fun!) It takes place at one of only three poetry-exclusive bookstores in These Corporate States of America. Innisfree is also, wonderfully, a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. The sort of place with high stools to look at passerby through big windows, lots of table space to drink your large mocha, skim (delicious, by the way) and whip out your overdue assignment for that week’s writing workshop. The staff are the sort of beautiful not-quite-hipsters that make you feel like yes, today, you are a poet, and no, you don’t have to look or act a certain way to do it. I’m serious. The guy who runs the poetry reading they have every Tuesday has this shocking pink fringe that falls from under his pageboy hat and…