“Why do we have two staplers
at the circ desk?”
moving the hand sanitizer?”
“Is there a specific reason
this door is open?”
My boss bombards me with such inanities
on a daily basis,
as if I have the answer,
as if I give a shit.
Typical librarian in his obsession
with petty details
and moronic minutia
amounting to less than a frozen dog turd
in a forgotten alley.
He’s retiring at the end of the semester;
I feel sorry for his wife . . . .
Or maybe he’s an altogether different person at home,
sane and sensible,
perhaps this job brings out the worst in him,
perhaps I bring out the worst in him—
He certainly brings out the worst in me;
sitting here now,
engulfed in my stink,
writing his name
on the stall wall.