In a tiny town on the plains I saw
a library nobody went to. It was made of brick,
shaded by two big cottonwood trees.
A gabled roof. A wooden door. Inside
the books were waiting, row by row of stories
we once believed were true.
Then I journeyed to a great city, and when
I stole away in the middle
of the night I was so lonely I forgot
the thermos I’d left on the roof of the cab
when I threw in my bags. I loved that
thermos, it was clever and sleek, and I heard it
fall as we pulled away, bouncing down
the street like an empty shell.