This town has no style, no cachet. At any hour, so-called gentlemen loiter in the alleyway behind Judge Calhoun’s Old’ Time Boot Repair.
And the local newspaper (certified drivel) arrives late to our doorsteps each morning, smelling of mildew.
Yet the meat pies and the salted fish, it’s true, have no equals.

Old widows, young widows, middle-aged widows. Who sit on folding chairs and drink stale wine mixed with cream soda.

A sense of artistic value, I mean! A common reserve where shared abstractions may foment in earnest.
Rococo door knockers, for example!

( )

On my way to the post office, I pass Boris the watchmaker and watch him as he strings up a kite.
“Hello, Boris,” I say. “How’s the wind this morning?” “Fine,” Boris says. “Just fine.”

A purple fog swells in the distance. And with it, the smells of burning plastic.