In the UQ library, remembering good ol Fisher…
Tucked away behind the sandstone veneer
cool air washes out.
The smell of musty pages
connects familiar memories
of beige, metallic shelves;
photocopiers, giant staplers;
Fines (low on rent money) and the Closed Reserve.
The infitite products of collective late nights.
Countless rights of passage for
heavily esteemed and long forgotten authors.
Drowning in multisyllabic streams of wisdom,
catalogued spines set on display
in lonely, poorly lit rows.