Ode to the Abode of All Known

by Sean Francis

Id est (i.e.)

The Library.

From any hellscape

a great escape

This place of grace—

Where language

in array

Awaits.

*

Not to scant

pure picture books

(Novel graphics)—

Nor the flat, thick atlas

with its pale-hued maps,

Math texts’ graphs and fractions.

Their name is legion,

The Library’s benefactions.

*

Including

providing

To those with no

fixed address:

Who thus can come

as to their home

away from

no home.

*

It’s not quite or always noiseless

there, but closer to than any else—

It’s where silence, enjoined,

is most enjoyed.

*

Let’s us Latin it

for a minute,

our special site:

Locus Amoenus

means “Happy Confine”—

Which thought of

as a paradox

Might remind us

it’s in essence wall-less—

That Library

is a kind of rhyme

for Liberty.

*

Not the least of its felicities

its infrastructure’s lexicon:

…but from which,

when it existed,

my mother, a librarian,

would bring home cards

for items, I now surmise,

deaccessioned.

These were ubiquitous

in our house,

serving as the chits

for sundry scripts:

All the jottings

of JOF

(Janet Oaks Francis)

as she was known at work—

At home

as Mom.

*

Where would I be?

The Library.

(Where would I be

without The Library?)

Reliably,

The Library.

Bury me

in The Library.

You say you’re

a Library Scientist!?

Get to work at,

command a salary…

from The Library!

Whiz gee—that’s ecstasy!!

*

May this ode

put paid

to what

I’ve owed—

Be my homage, long

OVERDUE.