Library Rooms

Whinny lights and senior's chat

prevent silence

In the place delectated in movies as an echo chamber,

with pointy glasses wearing quiet

enforcers dropping pins at regulars intervals

I explore corridors.

​

Feet scrape orange carpet

Each thousand room hall with

decorated doors, holds thousands

of monologuing authors

Each with his or her own interest

I snag one and hide.

​

I creek open a cover and watch

a first kiss

As if aware of my sight, the

author stares out the crack

Explaining his OCD's origin.

​

"You could have AIDS"

"You could have AIDS"

"Was there blood on that nail?"

"Is there blood on the doorknob?"

"Get tested"

"You could have AIDS".

​

Chat returns as focus wanes, so ends

the day's consensual eavesdropping session

I shove the book in its place and scrape

past once again lively seniors to

leave the library.

​

Outside greets with silhouetted trees and dusk

I walk home to return tomorrow, or not,

depending on if interest remains mutual

If I care to hear more.

Shoreline of Tomorrow

Seventeen