Library Poem by Tentative Poet

In the library this afternoon,
while I sat waiting for my muse
to sneak up behind me and
touch me softly on the shoulder,
I watch the other readers,
bent over their words like Benedictines,
and I thought I heard,
above the whispers of turning pages,
and the occasional clearing of throats,
the patient sounds of quill-tips
scratching upon yellowing parchment,
and sniffed in the cool quiet air,
a faint hint of sandal-wood.