atlas of the world

vacationing

is soft and sweet

a delicate, timeless bliss

of time with family

and with the self

it is also a ticking time bomb

all too temporary

and always almost over

but temporary loveliness

is rarely lost on me

even in the direst moments

where good things end

and time moves slow

i am quite good

at finding the light

before it’s gone

right now, i sit alone

in the back of a quiet library

in wildwood, new jersey

a lovely beach town

with a strip of gorgeous hotels

and a boardwalk

and a number of wealthy natives

i didn’t ever stop to think,

huh

wildwood must have a library

that rich wildwood natives

must read too

upon entering, there’s a display

of books for sale

for visitors from other states

who cannot take books out

soft covers for ten cents

hard covers for fifty

i buy three

but before that

i immediately look

for any book by bill o’reilly

i find one

almost immediately

and hold back a wry smile

a common trend

in most of these towns

alas

the building is nice and cool

away from the blistering heat

of the outdoors

every library is unique

different, yet the same

the rustle of pages

the click of a stapler

the coolness

the peace

somehow

i feel at home

in every one

the book on the shelf in front of me reads,

a treasury of great poems

english and american

as thick as the width of my palm

another underneath it reads,

atlas of the world

a slimmer book, but tall and wide

for the length of maps to span across

and from the corner of the library

in the midst of peaceful rustling quiet

i think of all the corners of the world

that i will not see

all the maps i cannot understand

all of the places in time

that i cannot even fathom

and all of the writers in the room

more dead than alive

seem to hover over me

like ghosts of the human psyche

in all its endless undying