They say that no man
Is an island unto himself.

Every day as I strain
Through the throngs
Commuters to work:
Coughing, reading
Averting, shifty eyes,
I wonder,
Are their smiles
Ever given or received?
Not for me
But for someone?

Arriving silently,
I walk through
Library catacombs
Dust thick in my nostrils,
Leaf-meal of crumbling pages
Scattered on stack floors.
Hand strains for top shelves
Back bends for bottom ones.

Authors know me,
They nod graciously
When I find them,
Aright their wronged placement,
Mending their frayed bindings,
Gently pressing through
Delicate pages.

I ask the words,
Hundreds of years
Since fresh penned,
Scan the pictures,
More alien than Xanadu.

Who were you
That winced bespectacled
By candlelight?
Poured out your heart,
To parchment or wood pulp.
Did not trust others
For inmost thoughts,
Not wife, nor husband, nor friends.

Now we gather you
Through the ages,
Build new wings, branches,
Mausoleums of reflection,
The writer's keyhole
Mirror of the world seen
Only within himself.

So, I push my cart
Up and down the ramp,
Gathering philosophies,
Frustrations, opinions,
Amusements,
Rainbow emotions.

Blackened hands
On the ancient tomes,
Sneezing away centuries.
They prod me onward
Turn inside,
I tuck them in,
As I do my own soul
With intangible pages.

Enumerable islands
Born, dying,  feeble
Amongst the crowd,
Waiting to be loved.