Dewey Decimal

The stamper goes thud at the mahogany desk,

a heavy, black rhythm that times out the afternoon.

An old man is sleeping, his posture grotesque,

folded over a paper that was printed too soon.

I walk past the history, the spines all in rows,

where the clear plastic covers crinkle and whine.

The air has a scent that everyone knows,

of glue and old paper and the passing of time.

I’m just here for the printer, for a sheet of some fact,

but I find myself slowing down by the tall shelf.

It’s a quieted world, a delicate act

of keeping your story tucked away to yourself.