Fifty years the butcher shop <br />has hung these animals on hooks <br />to cure. The stationery store <br />dispenses the same old news, <br />same change, a little less silver; <br />ladies in a beauty shop desire <br />the perfect permanent. <br />Mornings this bright <br />cast the deepest shade; <br />everything seems to come <br />from memory. The subway’s elevated. <br /> <br />Down the block toward the river Bronx <br />each yard has a chain-link fence, a dog <br />attracted to the random noise. <br />The woman no one knows is dead is still <br />in the chair by the bedroom plant. <br />Stripes advance from the blind <br />to her lap, slower than the human <br />eye can see. Above the accidents <br />of traffic you can hear <br />her clock and clean refrigerator hum.<br /><br />Heather McHugh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elevated-2/
