The hinges creak closing time.

The library door slams,
and the key—a rusted Peeping Tom—
clicks its metal tongues, and exhales disappointment
at having to leave so soon;
a puff of dust

from within the lock,
through the keyhole, and over Luna’s fingers
stretched out on the counter, paging through the late returns;
pages whisper, windows rattle
at the wind’s wailing:

*‘The show’s about to begin.’