The Public Library

			
Here are the academics who toil without pay
The lover of wisdom whom ivory will not reflect
Those who know not the quill or gown but the ballpoint and fleece
Who with spiral bound notebook perform such a feat
As to scrawl innumerable, unintelligible notes
Marginalia, of some sort, forgotten, at most.
These, the rare, come with certainty, arrive
In plastered walls that smack of the past
And certainly the past, but not ancient
But generations, at most, hide
 
Amongst the shelves the spines flex and find
But the more they do not know, antipathy of mind