Standing outside library on hustle to-and-fro and north-south street she
thinks of other libraries in the cold elsewhere biting her lip, flipping her finger
like lighter at hem of skirt black against slender tan legs,
doors stare back, cold reflections protect shelves and novels, old women
shuffle, speaking, ignore; a boredom,
a closed library-verse multiplied space with infinite doorway entrance,
outside the flowers grow and the tv's blaze and language dies,
If I'd hold her in my arms and she'd cry
I could forgive my dried up voice
And she’d likely sing
“Besides—they’re only plastic coated,”
(forgetting her overdue books)
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