The last term in my last year of college sputtered
out in a week-long fusillade of examinations and research papers.
There was a last paper on FDR’s presidency for which
I would have to make one exasperating last visit to
the library, the dead core of my education, the white,
silent kernel of every empty Saturday I had spent trying
to ravish the faint charms of the study of accounting.
So I came around the concrete corner that gave way
to the granite steps of the library. I entered and
asked the librarian for two books I had on reserve.
Paraphrases from The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon.