I plug my purple plugs in,
Press play. Garland starts to sing
About the clanging trolley and the man next door;
Or Abel will start reverberating in my ear,
About his girl’s new tattoo:
Telling him to lookie there, causing sex to ensue.
I go in my zone as I start pushing my truck—
I want to be a song;
I’m almost there.
The codes that I read
Blur into the scenes in my mind.
I dream more now while I am on my feet,
Than when I rest my tired head.
The novels I put away on the shelves I’ve dusted
The day before, are full of people I’ve met
Or the memories I chase.
I push a row to the right, as I push
My needs and wants to the side.
Most of the thoughts that pass through
Slowly, are the important ones that
Create my story. Take a pen
Black ink to cover my skin—
The felt tip dances and mingles with my freckles
To become what I
Embroider in others’ hearts.
This is the way that I speak,
And the way I can sort through
What I think; in the quiet seclusion
Of the library where I work.
