On the other side of the bridge
Rested a quieter street,
Albeit brightly lit.

And tucked among its many windows
Was one of a small library; the picture inside
A cozy and warm one.

As if a pied piper had begun playing one of his many yarns
I blindly followed the path toward it
And ended up outside its entrance.

Its name was etched plain in wood
Spelling out the humble name
Of the surrounding locality's night library.

The locality in question was one of
A drowsy kind, where life didn't speed
Past you, rather it ambled its way through.

And yet, it produced the kind of people
One would see in newspapers,
Surreptitiously making a name for themselves.

I wondered, where exactly did I fit in here?
Was coming across here a mistake,
Or was there a secret plot to ambush me?

The inactivity and calm of the place
Was strong enough to lull me into a sense of security;
Was I going to pay for that?

Having had enough of these ploughing fears
I pushed the door open
To be greeted by lavender.

Obviously, it had to be lavender;
For what was a better scent
To let one's guard down, than lavender?

A squat woman sat at the checkout
Poring through magazines,
As smoke ebbed away from the stub in her ashtray.

My entrance had been declared
By the tinkle of the bell and yet,
It failed to gain a response from her.

I looked around the place -
The place was cramped, the shelves full of books crammed
And the journal stands so close to one another, they clattered.

I took a seat at the tiny table, overlooking the sight outside,
And for the first time throughout the night,
I smiled as I finally felt I had arrived home.

•

maits³⁰¹

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