The Moments, The Minutes, The Hours

Jill Scott

It is a very, very rare occurrence that I do not finish a book of poetry. Books of poetry being what they are (which is, in general, short), it seems something of a fallacy to apply the fifty-page rule to them. In order for me to throw a poerty book under the couch to feed the dustbunnies, it has to be awful.

"Every Friday night My sistas [sic] are going to the Funky Blue Jazz Club on 42nd and Whatever wearin' dresses too short too tight too small" (--"Kings at Clubs?")

I rest my case.