Bad With Words

Bad with words, says she. Hal Here are five for ya: you work at a library! Here's another: Trony. you don't fool me—I know you've got plenty in that brown cloud of curls on your headtop, the one that floats you around, suspended, shelving and cataloguing and cart-pushing in this big fort like a bee, yeah, the queen but she likes to get her hands dirty, "no delegating for me, no hangerson please!" configuring this hive of knowledge, guardian of poetry books (and the rest) that contain the sweetness of ages, ay, look not at the apparition of mud and man typing away, look to those pages if you want to find me, and I suppose I might find you peeking out from the dark in that roll of film in your swanky analogue camera hanging from your hip like a sword, or something more trite like a gun—shoot gently sweet lady, or I'll swear by all. flowers too-too loud, and this is a library after all.