every time I come to the library
to write my poetry. There’s the librarian
with the tight jeans that hugs every curve
of his tight ***. He had brown wavy hair

and wears glasses. I suspect he’s about
forty. He never says hello, and walks
swiftly past me. There’s a group of young
oriental kids that get dropped off here

after school. They like to make a racket
playing video games on the computer
while I’m trying to compose. They crunch
their popcorn so loud I feel like breaking

their nose. And there’s a middle age man
that looks like a professor with wavy
hair that sits up high on his head the color of
the sand, except for few gray strands. He’s

here every day like me, staring at his computer
screen wearing round spectacles like
Benjamin Franklin. I always see him walking
Here. He must not have a car because I know

He walks real far. He always has earbuds
In his ear. Don’t know why I am telling you
This. You probably don’t care. Then there’s
The old lady in black who wears cat woman’s

glasses and eats a snack. That’s just to name
a few. I see them all the time but never
say hello. They don’t say hi to me either. Doesn’t
make it right. But people keep to themselves

these days. I shouldn’t complain. I’m the same
way. I come here for one thing only. But as
a writer I can’t help but notice what’s around
me from time to time. So, I thought I’d write

a poem about them. But I didn’t know it
would be this long. I feel like I’m just rambling
on, because I took this one to the next page,
without ever saying “hello” or knowing their name.