Passing through Hometown

The discount drugstore, the last place,
is closing in ten minutes.
There’s just me over here by the paperbacks,
and three teenage boys
analyzing rock magazines,
and the cashier getting ready to go home.
Next door the jeweler’s window
lights up green velvet cases,
empty, with dents in them.
A white plaster hand
has taken off its rings and bracelets
for the night.
Stage lights in Woolworth’s windows
and the travel agency behind paper blinds.
Drinking coffee after supper
at six I was almost the last to leave,
watching them pile up the dishes, people
pick up their coats and put down change.
The cashier holds a big ring of keys,
standing looking hopeful. I’m going.
On the street it’s quiet, not too cold.
I’m out of it when the movie window shuts,
lowering a little board over the glass mousehole
where you reach in with money
and the light cuts your arm at the wrist.
Now the crowd is locked in for the show.
The manager who sells tickets
has gone inside to be with them.
The Lamplighter Bar
has two orange-pineapple lights over the door
and on the back wall the stuffed
head of a deer, antlers five points,
wears an Easter lily up his nose.
The traffic light
directs a single car to stop, then go.
I’m walking.
This is the republic at peace, this is what
all the fuss was about, to make the world safe
for; now nothing is happening, you can relax.
Far from oceans, from cities,
far from any border, nothing can touch it.
Beyond this street the streets do not have lights.
They know their way.