shakespeare we aren't, thankfully

so many writers in a room
yet only one open notebook

even my lined friend is drowsing on my bedroom floor,
too large and awkward to fit
into my bag
& it's far too cold
to carry things with my frigid hands.

but that doesn't matter, i've got
scrap paper so
mostly i'm wondering
what the hell's beside the room's solitary notebook
as the owner types blissfully,
ignoring its lines
it's glass of some sort,
the type
that breaks easily
and i would swear
it was a bong, in miniature
if this wasn't the library,
although that's maybe not such a horrible idea,
excepting the inevitable toss-out
that sort of behavior would accrue.

still, the library, any library
is far overdue
for a little mischief.
i'm going to go investigate
the locks
on the bathroom doors.