May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three
Christopher Cussat
An Interlude in Wyalusing

The window of the coffee shop creaks
and speaks to me.

It knows the stories of this town,
perhaps.

And as I walk down these very short
streets...the buildings seem old
and that oldness oozes out onto
the sidewalks and creates a calm haze,
an almost invisible protective layer,

a peace.

I wonder if I could live here
and despite all rational consideration
I know that the answer is yes (because)

I want something more simple
More simple than a city
where days seem to pass like short breaths
both unnoticeably rushed
imperceptible

I want something more simple than life

and as I relight my pipe,
I walk past the lonesome barber who is waiting
for someone's hair to grow and I am
tempted to go in and listen
to his stories about this town.

I am sure he has many.

I am sure I will not be one of them.
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