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at Robart's Library



David Hunter




The rain gushes down
& all is mist outside the windows.
The ceiling is as high as my hopes
& has triangular lights
Like electric pyramids.
I think with a sufficient amount of sweets
I could be persuaded to while away the day
Here amidst the periodical stacks.
Indexing my thoughts,
reflecting on words I will not read
& people I will not meet.

She is wearing a melon sweater &
her finger pokes her pudgy cheek
As she sits glowing before the terminal.
Is she tapping out a story of the man
Appraising her? The poet at large capturing her?
Or perhaps an essay on the impact of NAFTA
On immigrant women textile workers in Montreal

All is quiet except for a cough and a sneeze.

An old man in a tweed cap, oversized on his grey head,
Crouches like a century over his notes
Scrawled on scraps of paper,
Planning great revisions for society.
He blows his nose and unfolds the kleenex looking for portents,
Like reading tea leaves in a cup.



Scars Publications


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