No one who is anyone comes around here to read any more,
since the reconstruction.
Workmen hid best words behind makeshift walls, angled and marching
round soundless corridors.
Canned condensed poetry into two half shelves each five eighth's full.
You do the math.
Each letter gets two poets, a deck of cards chosen at hurried random
by obvious madmen.
Wander too far left, you enter into simple feta cheese recipes, stray right
into electrical engineering.
It is too quiet.
Knowledge can be heard seeping, leaking, sinking into the ground, never to be found. Again
packed like lemmings
behind Balsa wood walls, reason cries, muffled by rolls, rolls of red and yellow caution tape.
Little room to move
forces pilgrims to file past coffin card catalogs, past posters of promises of vague re-opening
at an unknown date.
This future garrotes our past, in back alley budget cuts, cuts back against the grain and slowly
slits our throats
while we sleep. Speechless, we exit past periodicals, no one in a right mind could ever read and
out the back door,
staggering into the sun.