The dusk arrives as a hesitant guest,
as an April sigh in May, stirring up
dust between Kant and Shopenhauer.
The aged librarian sneaks slowly
through the corridors telling guests
to leave before they turn into intruders.
He lights his desk lamp, picking up
the leather-bound volume, he left
the night before, he reads his rime aloud
The library walls cannot choose
but hear; at night the librarian
is library and the library his guest.
As night has fallen, his lamp is the orb
defining the perimeter of present
and none, and in the blackness beyond
there are no voices, only ears, but
when the clock strikes twelve the library
declares that it’s time to rest.
The librarian will stay, he doesn’t need
more sleep than what the floor
beneath his desk can offer, so
he says goodnight, as every night
and kisses, her, his mistress, keeper
of the wisdom, books, and in symbiosis
Today Ingrid guest hosts at dVerse and inspires us to write a poem in the voice of a fictional character, and having my own I will let the aged librarian’s voice be heard. He never really speaks, but talks through his actions.
May 4, 2021