FORECLOSURE
If the hour was solid time I'd
walk right into it as candidly
mine. But, not so. The wind
will blow, and ring the chime,
and there are lots of them, each
in a row in those dainty small
towns like Flemington and those
below: Ringoes, Sergeantsville
and Lambertville too. They've
stretched things out around those
towns - running on river time,
those spaces in an open clime.
People sit on chairs on the riverbank,
drinking to pass the time while
dining and gazing out. The old
feller weaves a a tale of fishing
in a Wintry gale when he was
twelve and had nothing else to
do - the schoolhouse was closed
because of a fire, his Dad back
then was still milking cows by l
hand, and he himself had sneaked
out, to roam the land, like twelve
year olds then were wont to do,
back when. 'Now,' he groans, they
sit in place and stare; doing not a
thing all day. It's not good, I tell
you, can't be good at all.' He sits
there, the happy waitress says, most
every Summer's day - the owner's
cousin. They just let him stay.
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