slung high in the frame, centered above the tracked dust on a

slack wire, suggesting the way it might pitch in a strong wind,

the shadows that might throw.

The house is heavy, unattractive, sheathed in stucco, not native

to the region. My grandfather, who sold supplies to contractors,

was prone to modern materials, which he used with

wholesaler's enthusiasm. In 1921 he replaced the section of brick

sidewalk in front of his house with the broad smooth slab of poured

concrete, signing this improvement with a flourish, "W.F.

Gibson 1921". He believed in concrete and plywood

particularly. Seventy years later his signature remains, the slab

floating perfectly level and charmless between mossy stretches of

sweet uneven brick that knew the iron shoes of Yankee horses.

"Mama Jan. 1922" has come out to sweep the concrete with a

broom. Her boots are fastened with buttons requiring a special instrument.

Ice gorge again, the Ohio, 1917. The mechanism closes. A

torn clipping offers a 1957 DeSOTO FIREDOME, 4-door Sedan,

torqueflite radio, heater and power steering and brakes, new

w.s.w. premium tires. One owner. $1,595.

IV

He made it to the age of torqueflite radio

but not much past that, and never in that town.

That was mine to know, Main Street lined with

Rocket Eighty-eights,

the dimestore floored with wooden planks

pies under plastic in the Soda Shop,

and the mystery untold, the other thing,

sensed in the creaking of a sign after midnight

when nobody else was there.

In the talc-fine dust beneath the platform of the

Norfolk & Western

lay indian-head pennies undisturbed since

the dawn of man.

In the banks and courthouse, a fossil time