APRIL TOUR, FACTORY TOWN

Above me, a half-painted steeple on a drop-cloth

of indigo; to my right, Jake’s barber pole turning

spirals in the parking lot puddle from last night’s

rain; two blocks down, the all-night diner goes giddy

from the breaking sun’s riot on its armor of chrome.

Here, no mists rolling off the Adirondacks,

no clipper masts parting clouds in Mystic Port,

no million glowing windows from towers looking down.

This town’s content with plaid flannel, liver spots, bird-nest hair,

front porches for sitting, Sunday mornings for churchgoers

and shade-tree mechanics, elder strollers tapping canes

on uneven slate walks, gracious accepters of moss on stone

and habits gone wrong and sometimes quirky.

It’s an old suit vest without the suit, with orphaned buttons

that don’t match—

and when one pops off lost, you’ll see me looking.