I have no stories of far Bombay,
few memories of China's shore,
yet the mood comes
insisting, write my boy or die;
so pen's in hand, inking
in the margins of my book


I wonder sometimes
if the great librarian
is looking for that book,
checked out some sixty years ago;
rumination is a tricky thing.

She looks at my card,
considers sending an overdue notice
and then imagination runs wild.

A poof and appears a wizened old man
peeking over her shoulder to see
He takes the card, peers closely
through glasses immeasurably thick
pencils in a new date, replaces it
in the bin marked, new extensions.

"Don't worry about him," he says
carrying away a stack of returns
"he's still writing things I like;
he's not finished yet."


She pulls my card again
checks the new date
and I awaken with pen in hand.

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