The Congregational bell downtown
strikes ten. I’m surprised though
I know it does this every hour of the day;

there are whole weeks
when I don’t hear it because
I’ve lived here so long.

Rushing to the store
late before it closes
is something I do

that most folks around here
never need to do because they’re
done and locked and asleep by nine

at the latest. Walking the aisles
in a pea coat and earrings, ponytail
hanging to my shoulder blades,

I barely draw a look anymore
from anyone — renowned small town
eccentric, pausing

in the cat food aisle,
loading up to head home before
the next bell rings,

still hoping something will happen.

About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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