Pages, dog-eared and mangled,
turned. Chairs creak,
people speaking in muted tones.
Help yourself to the self-help aisle,
amongst smiles and stares,
no one cares what you’re reading.
Every word bleeding off of the paper.
Classics in plastic cover jackets,
hacks and artists; lyricists.
Fiction and non – believe it or not.
Fingers typing, a young student
wiping the sweat from his hands.
The librarian demands silence
in librarian parlance, a finger pressed
to lips that shush! Again a hush.
Coughs and sneezes, some guy wheezes
(it might even be me). I see with random
glances, chance glimpses of titles
with faceless spines, real crimes
and crafts. Stacks of periodicals
in a methodical Dewey Decimal, digitized.
Taps, raps and fingers linger on the DVDs
a bit too long. A strong sense of belonging
in a circle with the likes of King and Clancy,
Percy Bythe Shelley, Longfellow and Wordsworth,
wordsmiths all. I gather all that lifts my muse to the heavens.
Self-check out time is seven.
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2016