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About a Librarian
I have seen her
Morning tea
Lay still beside the keyboard.
I have seen her
Faltering eyes
Boxed inside the metal of
Black spectacles.
I have seen her
Winter scarf
Around that white twig neck, purple veins.
I have seen her
Patient gaze.
I have seen her hands—
Seen their movements,
Perched over paperbacks,
Leafing through thin brown pages,
Tactile, always intently rising
And falling on the many keys;
The orchestra of those keys
And the tick-tick-tick clock
Keep me from the words—
The words in front of me!
I have seen her—
But her voice I heard only once.
Four little words.
“Historical Section, Seventh Isle.”
How strange those words seem now
Left hanging in the air
By twisted metal wires
In a moment supported by
Strings.
I didn’t think much of it, I
Located my little book on
Roman history
And read in silence.
And so I have seen her—
But her voice I heard only once.
Only once.
How I wish we had spoken
On that dense evening.
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