Classic Poem

The Post Office was the grandma.
All day in the hot sun its cracked white face
Watched them pass to and from the fountain in the square.
The fountain is a friendly saint who heard everything
That was said in the square. But the post office
This old woman she knew the secrets they were afraid to say
And she kept them. They all passed before grandma —
The village dog cleaner gentler and better to look at
Than the village children who swarm like vermin — old men
With faces that have the dignity of an old penny
Women with faces like old sour dishmops coming and going
From the public washhouse women like a broom worn thin
A broom ready to be thrown away.
Yet somehow the sun passes over this town
Like the hand of an old gentleman over an old face that has no worries.