sitting in a cushioned chair

aptly described

as a post modern

orange violating teal

nightmare

i become distracted

looking away from

sir arthur conan doyle

by denizens of the library

an old man too cheap

to subscribe to

the new york times

reading cover to cover

perhaps he simply needs a place to be

a salesman hiding from his

pharmaceutical route

blue tooth whispers in his ear

pretending to be

on his way there

a japanese man

studying intensely with his tutor

for a citizenship exam

a mother with wailing

four year old twin girls

in matching coats

looking as if she is one bell jar away

from sticking her head in an oven

the merry widow

with a fake perpetual smile

in peacock glasses

reading ladies home journal

as if any of it matters

and the couple

both wearing wedding bands

all but penetrating orifices

in roman history

who are clearly not married

to each other

stealing a moment together

behind rows of books where

their spouses wouldn’t dare look

irony not to be

lost on me

there on my lap

rests a copy of

through the magic door

sir arthur conan doyle is right

such a divine portal

wonders to be uncovered

searching spines

in a library