The Library of Hours
I am here at the library of hours
chunks of time are strewn ragged
shelf after shelf
here's an early birthday
wafting through this strange corridor wind
the one where I struggled to blow the flame out
of the last few candles
there along the staircase
tumbling down the rafters
is me about eight
tumbling down a steep hilly street
in effort to keep up with my older brother
riding on a skateboard
and up there
giving a creak to the chandelier
I asked the girl of my dreams out
at a junior high dance
she said she had a boyfriend
I remember thinking
but you're only thirteen
and you live in Rhode Island
even higher up
above the colored-glass
I am in Vegas
surrounded by television writers
and drinking too much
walking alone
down an empty strip
in broad daylight
while down here near my feet
the children with autism grow
like mushrooms around me
bobbing with mute pleading
then drawing away
then signing thank-you cards
in my departure
long story short
I can't keep this up
the library is closing
the self has splintered and scattered
and I am reeling from my own multitude
I walk towards the doors
and the librarian stops me saying
come back tomorrow
new moments are arriving
this circus of memory
will be your legacy
I don't trust his smile
legacy
I smirked at the word
as I sped my lightning beetle
onto the thoroughfare
the throttle humming
and my mind drifting
into the all-possible clouds above
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