The Librarian

She never wears her name badge,
but I like it that way.
If she did,
it would be like her achilles heel
pinned to her breast
unnatural.
She has this sort of nonchalance about her,
eyes rest unblinking
on some far-away spot,
hidden but to her.
That stare in any others' eye
would be moronic,
but she moves hands across the counter,
adept.
Folding, typing, swiping, handing.
Her callous lips split into a smile
revealing pointed teeth
as smooth and pale as eggshells...

I keep my vigil,
peeping from between Flaubert and Flemming
catching my breath when she laughs,
as though gargling gravel.
A second,
then the stare again,
that confounded stare!
Folding, typing, swiping handing.
I wonder what she reads,
an accolyte of Plath, I reckon.
She's pensive too, just like Esther Greenwood
and a little bit cruel.
I want to nurse her,
to stroke her mousy hair
and clasp those bony fingers to my cheek,
'till warmed.
O! I'd be her Atlas
and bear her world as well as mine-
to press those lips to mine,
a second.

I know one day she'll see me here,
perhaps she will condede.
But for now my vigil must be kept
so I loom and watch,
unseen.