The council-funded chortle cheers
A countenance crumbled under wearied years
The secretarial slap of suede severe
And the waxy leather’s wary smears
Like pound-shop tea, backs corridors of library.
A dialogue drained from dictionary, or so it seems
The smog of carpet a congealed, encrusted cream
Spectacles warp walls in their concentric gleam
Circle immature beliefs, within the library.
Weekday workers creep in wild pretence
Like an ivy skin on garden fence
Shy from any amiable acquiescence
Look for books to tell them why, hence the library.
The secretarial smug pout, the greedy gain of fines
Out-back colleagues swear, and split their dimes
Ingraining over Lipton’s tea, their stereotypes
The juveniles who flow in their illicit lives
Congealing in uncommitted crimes, an explicit little brethren blind
Spit to shine their kitchen knives
In the street close behind, aside the library.
Dripping liquid rolls as dark as night
The slip of wind slurred syllable - lost its lines
Fingers through a troubled girl’s soliloquy
At the window, lets a sigh
As if we know no alphabet to organize
The sordid shelves of human mind
Stews inside ourselves throughout our lives
A whole library.
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