Lunch hour

 
 
 
 
 
Peeking through the stacks, owl eyes, unblinking,
silently interrogate.
Half twist to grasp that diligently sought title – turn back,
phantom eyes gone.
Disturbance unanswered.
Loud burble and spike, like arrogant gas
rumbles.  I must mask errant squeaks, lest they speak ill.
Such a day demands no allowances for happenstance.
Questions and pleasures must wait their turn, ride the
circular queue.
Back in the stacks, eyes bent, arms loaded,
warily unbalanced.
Anxiety whispers too loudly.
Owls fly, swoop, grab, devour.
.
.
.
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