All Things Return to the Chinatown Library Ten Minutes Before Close on a Weekday

all the coughing in this library.

all the threadbare gloves.

every sniffle. as the sky goes purple over the firs, the lights in here feel so bright.

a globe in the children’s area. a lego map of returning.

computers and computers and “thank you for respecting others”

also means “please no obvious porn.”

a woman with a face like a free paper bag in a pikachu hat. cartoon merch from a free bin.

all the standing, waiting for computers, pretending to browse CDs, magazines, hoping to check e-mail before 8pm.

after 8, there is no where to be for free, no room connected, nowhere to go where it’s your public right to cough.

I don’t know these things or need these things for nothing, not as much, maybe, as the man with the giant backpack full of knives

or something. I hesitate to guess what, knowing I might be right, knowing I may know this room too well already.