In Windsor, At The Library

Afternoon again in the Rose City.
 
Ouellette Avenue, the main drag.
Cars insisting on a regular pattern
of interruption.
 
The hum of the library,
oddly like a burst of energy
in a catacomb.
Standing modern and sombre
in the downtown bustle.
 
Winter chill seeps
through the plate glass walls.
A hint of death for those
who exist in the alley behind
the building.
 
Shelf upon shelf of
other people's words
stocked like dusty wood
in an attic.
 
Some of these words
belong to me.
 
I seek my name
in the catalogue.
 
I find I have been
placed in "Local History".
 
Not yet 50 years old
and
already labelled
as over and done with.
 
A mongrel dog
ventures into the
colliding traffic.
Diverts my attention
from self reflection.
 
The dog manages to
safely dash across
the street through
the mangle of
downtown traffic.
 
Survives to do the same
another day.
 
Everything will be alright now.