If you were blindfolded
And led silently
Into a lending library
Would there be
Any sense of

Doubt

Among the sundry myriad
Senses that would ignite
In such circumstance
Knowing exactly
Where you now were

Lest you be anosmic
Would not olfactory gifts
Be heightened

Raging

In fact
With all that print glue
Board and binding thread
Perhaps a hint a whisp
Of old leather
Rubbed to a shine
By eager enquiring hands
A slow measured breath
Then exhaled

Would not your mind
Come untethered
Knowing that somewhere
In that hallowed room
Lay words strung

Together

That would should
Enough pages
Be turned
Provide discovery
Change a life
In its entirety
Forever

Still sightless
Would you be cognizant
Of indexed digits
Engaged with velum
The scrape of paper
Upon paper

Revealing

What comes next
Continuing with each turning
Until the end
With the click-whump
Click-whump click-whump
Of date stamps
Wielded with
Practiced authority

The library card predating
Bank account
Drivers license
Marriage vow
Death certificate
In the rites of

Passages

An endless corridor
Opening segues
And alleyways of mystery
Occasionally
Mystery solved

Perhaps I blame
Those who first placed
A pencil in your hand
Along with the further
Debased sense

Of entitlement

Replacing the space
Where heart and wonder
Might otherwise stand firm
For even in deeming
A writing “remarkable”
Is in no way an invitation
To make such literal applications

Ad hoc
Squiggles of personal import
In pristine
Unadorned margins
Underlines quotation marks
Parentheses highlighting
With baseless impunity
You being but one
Singular library lendee

In long succession

Others before
One would assume after
With those latter
In particular
Assailed by your unabated
Selfishness

© jameshoustonarts 2026