By Parson Thru
Illuminated shadows of windowpane cross the parquet and scattering of Formica tables.
Shared space of sniffers, hackers, sneezers, deep esoteric mutterers, shouting babies, clashing crockery. Comings and goings; place of refuge; capsule; life support.
Toilet with splashed lino, male attendant, sandwich wrappers in the bin.
Reading room, sunlight striking on the carpet, echo of lobby conversations like prayer, persistent coughs; yes, cloister; soft tap of keys, spines classified and packed as in cannery, occasionally visited.
Afternoon and every seat is taken, bags zipped/unzipped, bump of hardbacks/laptops onto desktops; palace for the people, from another age; all the passes look the same, no black, gold or VIP; no one knows what car you drive or cares what name your registration spells.
Angers and resentments are left among the venous and arterial grind of vehicles in the street; books remain the best form of insulation.