Never a commotion in this town.
No crowds of yelling hustlers in the bus line.
No controlled professionals, stamping toward the train,
Without eyes but for a deadline.
A few cars driving to soccer practice,
And the college girl with a tattoo on her foot,
Gliding toward the coffee shop, admiring
The bouquet of sunshine and ocher leaves
And that tumbling hill where sleds find snow.
A lady who sells bacon
Covered in chocolate, before she teaches yoga
Down the street from that row of old houses
Where the lawyer writes a will on demand
And the insurance agent’s wife visits for lunch.
They own a dog, a yellow lab, who bounds up the hill
And down around the yard with no fence
As he plays with that three-legged beagle next door.
The agent’s son says “yeah” to every question,
Smells like candy mixed with old diapers and powder
Covering an accident, today, on March 22 of this year,
One day closer to death.

No ambition in this town.  No ten-year plan
Or grabbing a drink after work, while checking the boss
That lights up in your hand.
No commitment to happiness.
No humor, humor, good Lord, not more humor.
Here we have rocking chairs, the hardware store
Where Dave, the paint guy, knows you
And then your name, after four years.
Breeze in spring, rain in fall,
White snow all winter,
Grass in summer.
A spot for the dog to scratch its back.
A good place to die.