I miss my public library, where 
Whitman’s ragged multitudes saunter, 
loafe, blurt, and yawp, where 
a self-published self-help guru and 
bestselling novelist can rub spine
and jacket in common cause. I miss book 
dust and cover warp, the gray histories
no one has opened in twenty years. And 
how the boy who doesn’t read roams 
the stacks saying Hello and Hello, then
telling everyone his name. Just as I miss 
the checkout grandma on her phone
with a different grandkid every time
you visit, till finally you realize
you are her grandchild, everyone is,
and she’s smiling at you all the while
just as though she’d been expecting you.
 
I don’t want my due dates extended
or my fines forgiven, I want to lean
my blunt American shoulder against
the big glass door and enter like a deer
emerging from dark woods, 
standing there a blessed minute
just looking around and sniffing the air.
 
Most of all I miss the New Arrivals shelf
where my life will begin anew, and
where it’s an awkward and perpetual
cocktail party—field guides making 
stiff small talk with slim-hipped 
chapbooks and sturdy car repair 
manuals. Where first novels sneer at 
ghostwritten celebrity bios and poetry 
by cats, and every cover, without fail,
still glistens like April wildflowers
arising from the luscious mud.