You are wearing a T-shirt that says "Happy to help"

and I am very trusting so I ask you:
where I can find a book, any book, by David Shrigley
whom I quote in full
as you lead me with a Pacmanish
disregard for the straight-forward.
"I would like
to write
poetry but I find it
incredibly
fucking difficult,
I say, and you laugh
a too-loud-for-the-library laugh.
You're on your knees now,
inviting me to join you
in praise of the bottom shelf.
Just as we had hoped,
there's a book by David Shrigley.
You stay until I am smiling
then you scuttle back to stacking,
your morning improved by my being lost.