there’s something about
the towering shelves: the quiet atmosphere
the scratching
pencils, the sighs, the shuffling
of papers, of binders in backpacks
of the humming, gentle, from
the old air conditioner, sunlight
spills from open
windows
(you can tell things
about the people here
we all have lost
a puzzle piece
we spend eternity
looking for it again
look up, the old clock indicates
only a minute has passed)
i linger in the crooks and crannies
of this liminal space
the lighting is poor; it is not good
for my ruined eyes, my glasses
are proof of that,
a stranger slides into the
chair on my right, a stranger
rises from across the
table
to leave, i nod at him, he nods
back, we have never
exchanged a single word
in this life, and perhaps after
i will never see him again, how odd
the person who i granted
three hours of my short existence
maybe he’ll die tomorrow, and
i’d be the last to exchange
a nod with him, and maybe i’ll
die tomorrow, and he’ll wonder
and maybe i should say something
like how the charm on
his backpack is from a
show i watched recently, but
for now i stay quiet
flip another page, his chair
scrapes lightly on the carpeted floor
the air hangs in suspenseful balance
the automatic door slides
open, that familiar whish and we all
flinch, as unfamiliar cold air
filters into this haven
into the illusion we crafted, to pretend
for another few hours, chasing
the sun around the globe, hoping
to forget there’s a world
out there, and that this
is the only place that exists.