The one cop cracks his beat, tuesdays, thursdays... the tapped cracks blurr into the blue, days join years, rim to rim 5 a used pile of hubcaps rise to topple the sky. He lowers his eyes. He frets the shiny lower buttons off his coat, in the off hours, 10 in a silver-tinged sort of maternal sublimation. For him the end of labor, and the quench 15 of thirst, lie bound-- a single note-tone-- in a fist-sized, pawable golden glob of pocketwatch. We wait for the crinkled, 20 the time-worsted, the failing cusp of a summer's end, expiring in teacups. Your mother's handstitched, colorful, orange and yellow, gingham quilt wilts with August. 25 Nearby, some butterflies, a handful, hover over the midtown intersection parking lot of our pin-sized Pepperell village, watching the sky-dark cop 30 endlessly circle himself, wishing that they had stings.
From the collection "Youth Youth Youth"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.