the brass bell jingles announcing.
Old heads full of
turn like an orgy of owls.
they cry in unison.
Around the sentinel they sit
on wooden benches, edges
worn smooth by hands worn rough and
warmed by the ancient wood stove.
Dusty shelves, dusty memories,
faded longing, yearning for bygone times.
One jokes, another laughs,
and hazy eyes dream.