Poetry

All Things Return to the Chinatown Library Ten Minutes Before Close on a Weekday

Photo Credit: sea turtle via Compfight CC-BY-NC-ND.
Photo Credit: sea turtle via Compfight CC-BY-NC-ND.

all the coughing in this library.

all the threadbare gloves.

every sniffle. as the sky goes purple
over the firs, the lights in here feel so bright.

a globe in the children’s area.
a lego map of returning.

computers and computers and
“thank you for respecting others”

also means “please no obvious porn.”

a woman with a face like a free paper
bag in a pikachu hat. cartoon merch
from a free bin.

all the standing, waiting for computers,
pretending to browse CDs, magazines,
hoping to check e-mail before 8pm.

after 8, there is no where to be for
free, no room connected, nowhere
to go where it’s your public right to cough.

I don’t know these things or need these
things for nothing, not as much, maybe, as
the man with the giant backpack full of knives

or something. I hesitate to guess what,
knowing I might be right, knowing I
may know this room too well already.