In those days I still got off

On the crackling of old book spines,

The sound the needle made

When it hit the vinyl

And the way the pages of art books smelled

In narrow library aisles.

I wedged my skinny body in among the piles

And breathed in Diego Rivera, Dali, Brautigan

Neruda and Ntozake Shange

While my neglected shelving cart

Sat somewhere idle

And hidden away.

In those days I thought nothing

Of letting the hours drift by

Listening to Hendrix play in the dark room

While K. let his wet prints dry.

I thought nothing of walking a long lone trail

Through the woods behind Kruger village

Mel’s words and her pepper spray in tow.

I longed then as I do now

For the right silent spaces

That only the spirit can know.

-ZG

10-22-14