Librarians

Librarians, booky glamour,

A lady dressed as a hammer,

Twenty brass bands, a road, no shade:

All stuff in a perfumed parade,

All steeped in a cloud of clamor.

More was arrayed, yet I stammer

For the nouns. Marjoram? Amor?

A past-tense verb? Sashayed? No. Prayed? 

Librarians.

That of which we all enamor, 

And for which we loosen grammar:

Maybe that was found, sold, or weighed

In my library cavalcade?

Maybe not, and I'm a shammer.

Librarians.

I Flee Trombone

I flee trombone by any band 

That turns a blind eye to my brand 

Of sound. Refined, no, nor martial,

Nor, often, on the right partial,

But curious, concave, unplanned.

Notes shaped by? Bile? Or by grand 

Excrescence of adrenal gland? 

Or by the mind duodenal?

I flee trombone.

If not my body than a hand

Incorporeal has command

And through the nooks of a marsh all

Crooked slides keelboats with jars full, 

Yes, brass-bound jars, of contraband.

I flee trombone.