[ode to white lake, Whitehall]

if rust had a smell I would say it is this place
mix matched furniture, lounge chairs huddled around a chimney
the arms, used and faded
telling
to the many who have sat in them (their photo rests above the mantle)

even the water smells of rust and antique dust

every year, we try
to fit my paint tubs and brushes and bags
her sewing machines and guitars inside
a tiny orange car
or Loretta
and we find 31 and take it here

over the bridge past the weathervane that stands like a chimney beside the trees
up the hill past the small rusty cottages
a few with for sale signs
empty roads

to this yellow, quiet, mansion
that is as small as my home back home

this place emulates rest for me
it is rich with rest

mix-matched artwork adorning the walls, someone had a fetish for making sure they were covered well

our feet brush the floors of antique shops
and we scatter our eyes over all of the shiny, old things, mesmerized
and I buy yet another ring that means things
(for some reason it is only here that I find ones that feel like myself)
we buy rice, things for black beans, ice cream in the montague grocery store

a rusty quiet place with plants with velvet leaves

this place emulates rest for me
it is rich with rest