Small-Town Autumn
Spilt dusk light on the river,
silver as mercury.
It's not art
until you mention it;
not art, I heard, until you
notice the ache in it.
Every car thunks a loose
manhole cover on Main Street.
A flagless flagpole clinks its cord.
One fat cumulus billows like
the great robes of
bishops;
the untaut screens of porch doors
undulate in the breeze. And what
goes on behind those doors
goes on.
~ Donna Steiner
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