There are so many books in libraries.
Sitting peacefully on shelves.
Has that one had anyone touch its sleeve?
Do they ever leave?
Has anyone ever read that copy of
"French Painting in the Sixteenth Century,"
Page number one-hundred-and-eighty-two?
So many people walk by those books.
Books unopened, unread.
Do they even see?
And what about me?
I walk by books blankly,
Eyes guiltily averted.
They talk, those reams upon reams.
"Please, please read me," the screams.
You know, there are people in libraries too.