I walked into the library and never walked out.
Moms chase their children.
Bums come in from the cold.
Dregs plug in.
Some have opiate stares and tired alcoholic eyes.
Anonymous philosophers pick books off the shelves.
It’s humanity brought down to size.
“I believe I have a book back there.”
“Let me check… Yes, you have Bukowski back here,” the librarian said.
“Well… bring ‘im out.”
“I’ll need to see your card.”
I hand it to her.
“Oh, you’ve had this since you were a baby. 00 is on the account.”
I carry places with me,
like a library on my back.
It gets heavier,
until I have to let books go.
My library gets bigger,
but I shrug off the weight
and keep hauling words;
they’re precious to me.
I’ve had this personality,
that doesn’t believe in finality;
it lingers on people and places.
One day, I’ll shrug off my shell.
And amnesia will take me…