An array of books—
both read and reread,
unopened and unfinished—
stand erect between metal bookends
that were never sold in the garage sale.
Larger books, peers of the first,
rest wearily against a wooden slat
two perches down.
The august shelf,
what some in this library occupy again,
speaks its age
through chips in dulling whitewash,
yet another relic from the fundraiser.
Air surrounding the assemblage
smells of must and cat urine,
pungent witnesses to time's relentless passage.
Diagonally opposite the structure,
a pair of bunk beds guard the entrance to the room.
A purple blanket drapes the lower bunk,
its year-old wrinkles dismantling its elegance.
Above the color,
crinkly plastic stately covers tucked-in sheets,
protection from those clammy nighttime visitors.
Between the weathered denizens
squat two newcomers,
oocheguk stamped sluggishly across
their crumpled flanks—
keepers of some unfamiliar treasure.
Outcasts,
left defenseless in the family room’s dark corner,
here they sit rejoicing in the surety
that their mission
to transport their charge to safety
has been righteously accomplished.
