Worn spines shelved into rows
Short, long, some curved
Some cracked
Articulated stories
Glossy, new
Or yellowed, some
Stained or nicked
But all in place, waiting for perusal
The Librarian stalks through
His collection
Knows the careful system of order
And every story on his shelves
Appendages, appendixes, eyes
In jars and neatly labeled
Dexterous digits dangling,
Suspended in formaldehyde
A swipe with the dustcloth,
A lingering caress for an old favourite
The Librarian takes his seat
Behind a sturdy desk, inherited
His pencils are fine
So he sharpens his knives.
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