Before the locked
library doors we supplicate,
the scruffy lot of us,
the man with the crazed eyes,
the coyote-hungry man,
the rotund man with the silver beard.
Why do they have to wait
till opening time
to open? Couldn't
they make an exception,
as soon as they come in?
But something
in the make-up of life
stands on such formalities,
lest librarians start rising
earlier and earlier
and the Earth itself
violate its 365-day contract
and fly off into chaos
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I too have stood outside the closed door. Heaven forbid there be choas. I loved the discriptions of those that wait. Great visual Max! .