170. DECOLLETAGE

DECOLLETAGE
Family lines, inside troopers,
nasty relatives, happy uncles.
The neighbors' kids, that beat-up car
always parked along the curb.
Sky-writing on high.
The simple sound of the garbage truck,
always the same, rumbling by.
The street-sweeper swish
with its trail of water.
The pealing of the bell at 8am,
the tower, the church, the lawn.
The shadows across the bell-tower,
the mimic of architecture in everyday life.
The gravel and stones abutting the tracks,
the people - at the station - awaiting a train.
The men in their suits. The girls in light jackets.
High boots. Open-back shoes. Briefcases. Hats.
Doors, and the squeak of old hinges.
Something afloat in the air : the birds,
twisting and turning in flocks -
with their sudden maneuvers like wind.
No one else watching, except the girl about
six feet away who also seems to be looking up
with nothing to say. The office building across
the way. Its face of solid glass. The memorial
marker for something - the site of an old house.
Evergreens. A silent darkness. The old
foundations and the stairway to the street.
It seems too narrow now to have ever been in use.
Dense underbrush and a layer of pine needles.
Behind it all, the high trees, the very high trees.
The silent, sobering woods; the path worn through
the center. The stream, and the pond. The new
greenery seeping, pushing out of the ground.
The birds, the animals, the air, the breeze.
The simplest swaying of the tallest trees.