April 2018
NOTE: This poem is a slightly altered version of one I’ve written in my role as Norwalk Poet Laureate to celebrate the role of the public library in community life.
THE LIBRARY
At night, the poetry books climb off the shelves to party
and pray for their missing comrades.
One time, Walcott’s Omeros
disappeared for four months.
Another time, The Odyssey
nearly drowned in the bathtub.
You never know who won’t come home.
So they congregate by the windows
to drink in the darkened street,
the church, the lighted apartments,
to smell meatballs and pollo cooked with coconut milk.
They don’t mind not having mouths;
they have words, the best words in the best order,
and they love each other,
no matter the color of their cover,
no matter the language they declaim,
no matter paperback or hard cover--
it is just a cover, and no one judges.
They know they don’t have the power
to bring back their friends,
but they watch anyway
because each poem has a list of someones
who need a door opened into magic.
THE LIBRARY
At night, the poetry books climb off the shelves to party
and pray for their missing comrades.
One time, Walcott’s Omeros
disappeared for four months.
Another time, The Odyssey
nearly drowned in the bathtub.
You never know who won’t come home.
So they congregate by the windows
to drink in the darkened street,
the church, the lighted apartments,
to smell meatballs and pollo cooked with coconut milk.
They don’t mind not having mouths;
they have words, the best words in the best order,
and they love each other,
no matter the color of their cover,
no matter the language they declaim,
no matter paperback or hard cover--
it is just a cover, and no one judges.
They know they don’t have the power
to bring back their friends,
but they watch anyway
because each poem has a list of someones
who need a door opened into magic.
© 2018 Laurel Peterson
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