Newville 108

It helps to think of it as a city.  The beginning
Of a city, a little town blooming loud around you.
You’re in the middle of it, side-central flower.
There are creeks that run with the sound of
Crying babies.  This is perfectly normal.
This is how cities are made—first with eggs
On a fervent bed of moss.  Purple moss, 
Why not.  Becomes purple gutter, your neighbor
Waving hello, he sees you as part of the
Landscaping, the living city.  There is applause for
The show just getting out.  Bow.  Take a bow,
On your deck, the sun is shining, a bus rolls
By, one of the many odorless buses, to
The next city, from the last one, the way storm drains
Drain.  It’s all taken care of.  The baseball team has
A star pitcher, from this town, from next door.  He
Would have been you, you could have been him.
Glove on, ball coming in, caught, reach into
The glove, pull out the ball and read the name on it.
It’s the name of this town, the town you made,
That grew up all around you, so quietly you didn’t
Even notice.

JOHN RANDALL has worked as a trash collector, a copy editor, an attorney, and an investments advisor. His interests include property maintenance, birds, firewood, the night sky, and the freedom of speech. His poetry is forthcoming from The Florida Review, The Oakland Review, and Red Rock Review. He is online atjohnbrandall.com.