Four girls dawdle up the library stairs,
led by three adults: two women, one man.
The children murmur and coo, round-eyed, sublingual,
pointing out collages, watercolors, papier
mâché masks -- an exhibit of grade-school art.
Chubby and twice the size of the others, one girl
gapes at a magazine cover: a boy actor
from a TV series. Exaggerating
her nod and smile, the woman beside her raps
an invisible door: Yes. Language spins
soundless from their hands. The group drifts
around a corner. A girl in pink holds back,
staring at a paper lion's gold foil
curlicue mane. The man returns to fetch her,
tosses me a sly wink. Here at the New
Albany Public Library, I am a spy
in love. I knew they'd make this trip today.
I've never had the chance to watch this man
at work. Despite my love of words, I've never
learned this alphabet of hands, can't make
the sign to signal pride across a room.