'He's like a walking library,'
that's what I thought when we met,
and he peered over half-moon
spectacles, seeming to wonder
if he may have read me before.
Conversation shrank to a monologue
with no interruptions allowed,
as he pulled subjects from his mind
like volumes from laden shelves,
from Abderited to zymurgy, until
I feared the library would never close.
And I guessed that concealed
behind his tissue of truths,
and his farrago of stale facts...
was a face under siege
so that none may know
his booklore displayed only fiction,
and the section for autobiography
lay under the counter.
I suspect when he's out for a walk
he keeps a careful eye on his shadow,
in case it slips away and whispers
secrets to cracks in the pavement.
© haizegaile, mr. know-it-all