From the general store porch the view
southeast fades in sky-hung vapors.
The day-care playground rackets
with squeals, shouts, and audible tears.
At a round metal table we sip
our coffee gently to prevent
the world from spinning out of orbit.
The black surge of waterworks
fueling the brick mill complex
sulks along between snowbanks
that won’t thaw for another week.
I recount my silly dream. Walking
up High Street we pass a dumpster
where men are cleaning out a house.
One offers a toilet repair kit
that otherwise will be trashed.
You claim it with thanks. We walk on.
Such a practical dream defies
vapors drooping over lowlands
where the lake sprawls for a mile
of heavily taxed water views.
The children dash indoors, surely
for a snack or a nap. Silence
drapes the factory bell tower
like a windblown rag. We nibble
a shared doughnut. We refill
our insulated coffee mug
from the stainless urns arranged
like mourners beside a grave.
The wind combs through distant trees
in search of lost time. We finish
our coffee and consider the day
sprawled before us, the color
of the atmospheric vapors
too far from the usual spectrum
to furnish us with a clue.
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