As the falling sun torches the mountains
at my patio door, I feel a sour gloominess
creeping over me. Have I done any good
in the world today? Not really. I feel
warehoused, neglected, and superfluous.
So I decide to go up and visit
The Forgotten Library.
It sits on the third floor of my apartment building;
two rows of cheap plywood shelves,
drowsing in a respectful neglect.
People my age do not ever throw out books
or magazines.
So they wind up here on the shelves,
rarely, if ever, examined or handled.
The perfume of disintegrating glue and
paper turning brown with age
is a reminder of mortality shrugged off
with a sigh and a chuckle.
Old historical novels predominate.
Some of these books are pretty old. This one dates
from 1955, presented as a Sunday School award.
An original copy of Dashiell Hammett's 'The Thin Man.'
From 1934. I bet it's worth something on eBay or etsy,
but I left it in peaceful disusage.
From England -- a long time ago . . .
Can you read the price? One shilling.
Hey! How'd this kind of book get in here?
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