Sitting among the stacks of old books, counting the bricks or the wall,
searching the spaces for a little recognition.
You know the routine.
What will they say when I’m gone?

It isn’t depression, or a craving to end the pain. Just afraid
that when it happens I’ll disappear.
I would like to go
and find a book with my name on it.

Or better yet, I’d like to find the space where my book should be,
then put my name on the waiting list
because someone had checked it out.
Some boys crave flowers, I want to be read:

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Tony Wears a Tux,
and I need you.