No movement but for the waves of heat
Shivering up from the street in blurry S's.
He draws the stiff shades,
Awkwardly, the office door bolts.
Now, clients barred, back to the reading
Room, where from tomes of law
Lining three walls, he turns to a small
Shelf, scans the volumes
Of The Great Works of Literature:
Pope underlined; Thoreau derided
In a margin; Darwin considered, as face
Flat, the binding settled so to attest...
He uncaps, tips a flask of bourbon.
Today, it's DON QUIXOTE that he's chosen.
By the clock, just noon.
In amber, an air-pocket, this room.
