Tweet
Booker Street Pinwheels
I one-stamped to this quiet little village
to tap-tap-tap on my IBM with an orange tabby cat
and a Samsonite filled with unlikelihood.
I moved into flatline and waited for the words
to come; to type themselves onto blank pages.
The bureaucrats said,
“Instead of using critical man-power to
navigate city traffic and the excavator
required for the sewer line replacement,
the city has decided to close Booker Street.”
The labor unions were mad,
the commuters were mad. So, too were too
the business owners, I might add.
“A week without shoppers will destroy
our local economy.”
I watched from my window
as they unloaded the large yellow
equipment on a Monday morning.
The bakery offered warm currant scones
to the hard hats.
The flower shop
rolled out a cart filled with
colorful daffodils and crocus.
The market joined in and
brought out wood crates
filled with oranges and apples.
Across the street is a bookstore
filled with hard-bound treasures
of travel, education, and publication.
A hermit photographer lives in the flat
above; he comes and goes with luggage
and rarely visits with the common folk.
On Wednesday, Hermit
snuck out with his camera and took photos of
the explosion of color
in the dead of this England winter. His photo of the
bookstore window filled with
slightly rain blurred Richard Scarry characters, and the
blue window flower box
all but empty except for a
a crooked pinwheel against the red brick
appeared in newspapers across the globe.
The project was schedule for completion
on Friday morning, but as with
all things it took longer than expected.
Four hard hats talking with their hands
and staring at the hole finally declared,
“Booker will be closed for another week.”
Saturday morning everyone came to see the famous
pinwheel slowly shifting in the wind. They shopped for delicious delights,
bought bound treasures, picked up their salad fixings.
Mothers struggled to keep
curious boys away from the giant hole
in the ground. Of course, while little brother
was dirt diverted big brother was climbing
into the excavator bucket and dad
finished up a pint from the newly named
Lucky Loader Pub.
Come Monday, an editorial was printed
in the newspaper demanding for Booker
to remain closed; to create a safe
haven for pedestrians and cyclists.
It will boost the local economy.
And so Booker Street was
permanently closed. Giant flower
pots containing elm trees popped up
like tulips in the spring; then like ants marching in
came the picnic tables and camp chairs.
The book store embraced their fame
and made pinwheel bookmarks for
all their customers. In the height of summer
there is a pinwheel photo cut-out
for all the tourists and the drunk dads
all happening on my quiet Booker Street.
I one-stamped to this quiet little village
to tap-tap-tap on my IBM with an orange tabby cat
and a Samsonite filled with unlikelihood.
I moved into flatline and waited for the words
to come; to type themselves onto blank pages.
The bureaucrats said,
“Instead of using critical man-power to
navigate city traffic and the excavator
required for the sewer line replacement,
the city has decided to close Booker Street.”
The labor unions were mad,
the commuters were mad. So, too were too
the business owners, I might add.
“A week without shoppers will destroy
our local economy.”
I watched from my window
as they unloaded the large yellow
equipment on a Monday morning.
The bakery offered warm currant scones
to the hard hats.
The flower shop
rolled out a cart filled with
colorful daffodils and crocus.
The market joined in and
brought out wood crates
filled with oranges and apples.
Across the street is a bookstore
filled with hard-bound treasures
of travel, education, and publication.
A hermit photographer lives in the flat
above; he comes and goes with luggage
and rarely visits with the common folk.
On Wednesday, Hermit
snuck out with his camera and took photos of
the explosion of color
in the dead of this England winter. His photo of the
bookstore window filled with
slightly rain blurred Richard Scarry characters, and the
blue window flower box
all but empty except for a
a crooked pinwheel against the red brick
appeared in newspapers across the globe.
The project was schedule for completion
on Friday morning, but as with
all things it took longer than expected.
Four hard hats talking with their hands
and staring at the hole finally declared,
“Booker will be closed for another week.”
Saturday morning everyone came to see the famous
pinwheel slowly shifting in the wind. They shopped for delicious delights,
bought bound treasures, picked up their salad fixings.
Mothers struggled to keep
curious boys away from the giant hole
in the ground. Of course, while little brother
was dirt diverted big brother was climbing
into the excavator bucket and dad
finished up a pint from the newly named
Lucky Loader Pub.
Come Monday, an editorial was printed
in the newspaper demanding for Booker
to remain closed; to create a safe
haven for pedestrians and cyclists.
It will boost the local economy.
And so Booker Street was
permanently closed. Giant flower
pots containing elm trees popped up
like tulips in the spring; then like ants marching in
came the picnic tables and camp chairs.
The book store embraced their fame
and made pinwheel bookmarks for
all their customers. In the height of summer
there is a pinwheel photo cut-out
for all the tourists and the drunk dads
all happening on my quiet Booker Street.
Comment