New Hours

do not feel dumb if you think the organ store
shouldn’t have a sign, if it makes you wonder about preservation

and formaldehyde, price points and profit, ethics,
fishy clientele you don’t want to cross, or snooker

Janus tells me it happens every week, which is surprising,

even given the neighborhood

small, Apple-Bottomed Latinas with pink cars, boys on shoulders
—I live here, I don’t pawn off relatives’ innards

the sign says it’s a new season, Spring perhaps
my bike helmet drying out on the sidewalk

do not feel silly if you do not know it is actually Fall, if the moist
Midwestern air of this passing storm confused, or even excited you

things are unpredictable
even given the neighborhood

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