Congrats, Tucker-Reid H. Cofer Library!
Today I had the exciting opportunity to read a poem at the opening ceremony for the Tucker-Reid H. Cofer branch of the DeKalb County Library. And it was standing room only! And there were all these great people there (kids, parents, young people, old people, etc.) being very excited about this incredibly modern, incredibly cool new library. And I am sorry I don’t have pictures! But I thought I would post the poem that I wrote and read for the occasion. (Apologies ahead of time to Mike Bailey who probably does not even remember the day I mention here, nor knows he made it into a poem by me.)
The Library
New York loneliness in my mouth
like a pungent cheese to savor—
the sun slanting
on the empty floor.
No one waiting for me to meet them,
no one will be waiting
for me to come home—
I remember
three little girls,
three canvas bags,
their seams pulled tight,
heavy with books.
And this—
Mike Bailey and his
dark denim jacket.
Three hours of Dungeons and Dragons
I neither follow
nor enjoy.
Emerging into the sunlight,
still it is a surprise
—this afternoon will not end
in kissing.
And, always—
the long mural of indigo and violet unfurling the length
of the children’s room—
an expanse my small hand moved over,
languid and satisfied,
like that of a woman
dangling her fingers
to trail in the water
from the edge of a boat, rowed
by someone she loves.
It does not take long:
59th Street subway,
fast walk a few blocks,
and then the anonymity of fluorescent stacks
becomes a familiar, deep pool
in which I am fully submerged.
I am only
a hand, lifting,
choosing,
not this one but that—
finding and then not finding,
and finding something else.
For hours I am
lost.
Found.
Dissolved.
Nowhere else has solitude ever been so pleasing
—so soothing and luxurious.
Nowhere else grants this comforting power
to enter,
pause,
and disappear.