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The Librarian

She walks like the word purple--
a plodding unhappy slob of a woman
with her station of life spread
beneath her like so many crushed
apple pies
Maybe pumpkin, like crushed Halloween
dreams
She smells of tan, like an unplucked upper
lip, a simple silver wedding band,
a flesh pair of knee-highs that isn’t quite
flesh
She wants to be orbited, important,
but she directs children like fleas,
everywhere,
farther from her body heat
and pies