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Booker Street Pinwheels

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  • Booker Street Pinwheels

    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.

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