The serene spinster librarian

Traffic chokes the town again.

The heavy engines spit

at tourists aiming day trip snaps

of history, between the gaps

and through the dieselled air.

While in the room beneath the clock,

where lines on life are held in stock,

where books abound and rest in place,

she stamps another card.

To this oasis, clean and calm,

the blue-rinse bibliophiles rush in

and mention, in their mannered ways,

how bad it seems to be these days;

damn the dieselled air.

While in the room beneath the clock,

where pages turn, unwind, unlock;

she files a ticket, checks a date,

and stamps another card.

Overdues—returned unseen—

she gathers up and slots away.

Fiction, facts and tricks of trade,

all categorically displayed,

safe from dieselled air.

In the room beneath the clock,

unnoticed by the passing flock

held captive on the diesel’s back,

she stamps another card.