I came without my usual distance
of answers to the whispers and shift
of eyes occupying the air like inmates--
pieces of information so close
I could sense their cold breath
escaping between pages.
This time I went past the thought-out
lives and straight for brief notes,
the handshakes shadows only seem
to make. There are so many
thieves in mirrors. Mostly alone,
a few visitors sit at tables
like seasoned spies, some part
of them always side-stepping
down one aisle or another.
And eventually the librarian,
who is well trained with what's lost,
quietly asks if she can help me
find something. I want to say
I'm just looking but it won't be enough.
So I ask for the Genealogy Room,
a copier and the time.
| George Bishop was
raised on the
Jersey Shore and attended Rutgers University studying English/Creative
Writing. He relocated to Florida in 1985. Recent poems have appeared in
Boston Literary Journal,
Comstock Review and Prick of
the Spindle. Others are forthcoming in SOFTBLOW. Website: gbishop.artshost.com