A study cubby back behind the stacks
is where we first locked lips. The shelves between
the main desk and our tryst were filled, the racks
from Poetry to Fiction (811-813)
would camouflage shenanigans, while patrons turning pages
had no idea librarians could be their lusty selves,
by bumping up against the books instead of earning wages,
pulling orders, organizing shelves.
And when we exited that private nook,
returning to the world of Mr. Dewey,
we might exchange a sideways smile or swap a furtive look,
but always being business-like, no sentimental hooey.
Then after work, like any learned lovers,
we'd read a book and get between the covers.