Fortuitous Poem by Philip Roth

So that Mr. Scapello
Would not descend upon the boy
With his chalky fingers,
I walked up the three flights to Stack Three,
Past the receiving room
Where rheumy-eyed Jimmy Boylen,
Our fifty-one-year-old boy,
Unloaded books from the cart;
Past the reading room,
Where bums off Mulberry Street
Slept over Popular Mechanics;
Past the smoky corridor,
Where dump-browed students
From the law school relaxed,
Some smoking, some trying to rub
The colored dye from their tort texts
Off their finger tips;
And, finally, past the periodicals rooms,
Where a few ancient ladies,
Who had been motored down
From upper Montclair
Now huddled in their chairs,
Pince-nezing over yellowed, fraying society pages
In old, old copies of the Newark News.