A book with at least four page markers
and a row of untouched spines.
The clock hands stuck then racing.
Clothes constricting.
Clouds holding onto rain.
Gestures of a universal language.
Traffic moving every which way
without caring much about the views.
A town that held onto its street lamps
a little too long
before giving way to tattoo parlors
though there’s a cobbler on Main Street.
A tree that has breathed tar and tornadoes
knowing men as they were children.
The story never really begins but picks up
somewhere back and forth in the middle.
The Word Rummager 
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