Nested between rows
of videotape and magazines,
is a gray couch that still sits,
sunning itself in front of a glass
wall as librarians drift past,
quiet angels moving stacks
of dust from cushions,
from desks,
to shelves.
I would pretend to study,
an open backpack
to one side,
a notebook on my left,
flipping pages of Hemingway,
Camus, The Inferno
while the trees shook outside,
splintering slips of sunlight
and tossing
broken pecan shells
across the rusted hood
of a blue Chevrolet.
