He strides,
tweed jacket,
horn rimmed glasses,
between the aisles of dead trees that
grant eternal life to budding minds,
placing meticulously the
dewy decimal designations
into their home slots for another
caper, later.

He struts and grins and feels a god,
tender is his care across so many
expansive worlds, he tucks them
in each night, protective and
fatherly, diverting their streams
to the next deity wishing
to engorge. His cultivation
strikes chords and cries voices,
the opening of his doors
a day for joy.