Half Not, by Fred Marchantsmell of book-glue, of old cardboard,
and red ink at the edges,
the must almost alive, a papery
feel in the air, summer
like purpled, swirly endpapers, cool
shelves and oiled oak
floors, a long, varnished table of shifting
and murders, boy detectives,
with enough fear to get lost in before
the turn back to the real
where my mother stood in line, a return
slip being stamped with
the gentle thud and purple due date
of promises, all the books
I wanted to bring home to my brown bread
supper, to sweet corn
and my father who is on his way home, too,
who will stop off for a taste,
who will meet me later at the table,
the two of us a little loaded,
the two of us just a bit unsteady,
a book open in my lap,
half under the table, and half not
Sometimes I miss working at the library. I'll have to spend some time a the CHB when I'm home at Christmas.
