The library does not
own a couch. Everyone would take a nap
reading a book if the sun was the afternoon and leaves danced through. In which
libraries all across the earth smell like
cookies are in the oven and they're
almost ready. I think about home often
and it feels like it was never really there.
When I look up here are rows and rows
and rows of books someone once touched
and an oar moved us back in time
and I forgot my watch this morning.
It was left on the dresser
I no longer own but finds a window
at the end of a river I once called my
color this, lick that
stamp, and send me to her land,
the one with a rose engraved into stone.
[Image: Janis Goodman]