The Post-Intelligencer, a newspaper
with a name longer than mainstreet

writes:

Expect a day of such lassitude
even ducks lie helpless on satin backs,
upturned bottoms rusted brown.

Windows are wide open
like disbelieving eyes.

Boys tinker with a Ford. Two women on
a front porch lean together and kiss.
Wings dip in the birdbath.

The high school band teacher tunes
violins, first one and then others,
lowers his head and begins to weep.

The city bus stops for gas,
officer Paul Diamond finishes lunch,
in the next county a stolen car report,
he knows the need for men like himself.

An old dog is helped to its feet and fed.
A motorcycle stirs dust and disappears.

A woman hides $200 in her brassiere,
exposes an areole and smiles thinking
how her husband would enjoy watching.

A funeral party reluctantly thins,
the deceased so loved that his death
cannot be borne by a single mourner.

Heat comes to the old folks home, dawdles
in the rafters, the serving room breathes
heavily like a pensioner climbing the stairs.

A rheumatoid hand opens into sepal bloom.
Mulberry trees, graceful as girls at ballet.

A Black couple study in park bleachers,
she sees Karnak, Luxor and universities
founded in her name, a wind still blowing
from ancient Kemet billows his polo shirt
into the robe of a scholar.

At six, practicing Jews walk past Mormons
to synagogue. Card players at the VFW
fish eye a large pot. At Sacred Heart,
Mrs. Ridgeway's B-5 bingo card wins
a basket of cellophaned bath salts.

Afternoon fades on the doorstep, a vacuum
cleaner salesman knocks hopefully.
A Vietnam Vet sits on a davenport, snaps
on the lamp, holds a book but does not read.

A child nestles into the ribs of his father,
a mollusk into the sea bed, dusk unfolds
like a woman undressing for her bath.

The Post-Intelligencer evening edition
arches in the air, rattles the screen door.