Rewrite What You Know

Enfolded in the hush of library, I’m browsing, when a man 
coughs; wants my attention. ‘This yours?’ – he gestures 
at my bag. Not pausing, grabs the chair right next to mine, ignores 
three empty other options. I side-eye upwards, note a top-not, 
stubble, waxed moustache. And, balanced on his lower lip, 
a crumpled cigarette. Like he’s some sort of Private Dick: 
a Marlowe, or Sam Spade. 
Except, his trench coat is matt-black and spotless.
Reaching for the blind, he snatches at the cord, scatters daylight 
across the room. Then leans down, flicks at every switch 
on a row of sockets, until, satisfied, he inserts a plug. 
Stoops, cracks open a battered chest, starts slapping 
objects on to the desk: one well-thumbed leather 
notebook, photos of some buffalo, a piece of 
Whitby jet, two sixteen-sided dice, a scrying eye,
a dead watchmaker’s magnifying glass, an ugly Toby Jug, 
a dented Grail, a hard-boiled cobra egg. Tesserae 
from Sybaris, four jars of ectoplasm, unblown pink balloons,
three raven skulls, a scrimshaw covered shard of bone, 
hornbeam samaras, goldfinch feathers, a greasy map 
of Babylon, one tiny, undiscovered planet, a pocket 
thunder cloud, an oak gall and a pen. 
Delighted with himself, he smirks, steps away 
to fetch a book. I decide he needs a lesson. 
So, I rewrite the scene; transform his possessions. 
Leave him to contemplate a charging-cable, 
battery pack, glasses case and phone. 
Next time, I’ll be coming for his smokes, 
his voice, his coat 
and all that precious hair. 

Image Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: The British Museum: the Arch Room of the library, in the north wing of the museum, west end. Wood engraving, 1851. Wellcome Collection. Source: Wellcome Collection.