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Sport 19: Lightworks

The Contemplative Librarians of Iowa

page 29

The Contemplative Librarians of Iowa

They've made rich, textured lives here,
imbuing this lonely place with thought and fancy.
They liken themselves to the desert monks,
miles from all that is profane,
praying diligently for a world gone crazy.
Weekdays, the librarians rise early,
read the latest acquisitions, take notes,
memorise lines to recite and laugh about
when, by chance, a reader stops by.
Since the New York City intellectuals
dispersed westward on buses and trains,
the contemplative librarians of Iowa
have lived in hope. They've kept an eye out.
Hey, you never know who'll walk through that door.
The contemplative librarians
are not disembodied. On weekends
you can see them riding their bicycles,
dressed in black, careful, bird-like.
Distinctive members of the local ecology,
they glide above the corn stalks,
they read the big sky.
Of course they know it's late in the day,
they've had time to absorb, time to surmise.
And, biking, they've spied far off,
at the end of each desultory farm lane,
the threshers gathering.
Hey, you never know who'll walk through that door.
In Iowa, the contemplative librarians know.