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I came without my usual distance of answers to the whispers and shift of eyes occupying the air like inmates-- pieces of information so close I could sense their cold breath escaping between pages. This time I went past the thought-out lives and straight for brief notes, the handshakes shadows only seem to make. There are so many thieves in mirrors. Mostly alone, a few visitors sit at tables like seasoned spies, some part of them always side-stepping down one aisle or another. And eventually the librarian, who is well trained with what's lost, quietly asks if she can help me find something. I want to say I'm just looking but it won't be enough. So I ask for the Genealogy Room, a copier and the time. |
| George Bishop was
raised on the
Jersey Shore and attended Rutgers University studying English/Creative
Writing. He relocated to Florida in 1985. Recent poems have appeared in
Boston Literary Journal,
Comstock Review and Prick of
the Spindle. Others are forthcoming in SOFTBLOW. Website: gbishop.artshost.com |
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