A Shopkeeper’s Story - Poem by Bob Hicok
I sell one bristle brushes. People
seeking two bristle brushes I send
to the guy on Amsterdam, who’s in a rush.
I may have one customer a year
for my one bristle brushes, a one-eyed
lover of tanagers, she may have
one dollar to spend in the moment
light’s neither day’s or night’s,
but one’s where infinity begins. Whoever
she is, she’s always painting barbules,
I’m always thinking, no one will notice
that they notice this, that her tanagers
move, that everything’s alive. We talk
care and feeding of the one
bristle brush. Care exists. I thrive.
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