will this truck
in front of me ever move
down these cobbled stones,
this trash
truck
with men hanging off
the back
in jolly orange
jump suits. will
this beer delivery man
in his shorts
and crates,
wheeling out his weekend
bottled brands
ever finish doing what
he's doing
and move on.
the brown truck, doubled
parked, lights blinking,
there's no room to go around.
will the trolley bus
ever go more than two
miles an hour
full of tourists from
Wisconsin,
and jersey. their faces
pressed
to the windows, and maps,
in no hurry to get
to the old mill,
or see what a butter
churn looks like.
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