White Picket Fence Town, America

today i daydreamed about becoming a pharmacist and moving to a small town in the midwest, a town without walgreens and little caesars.  i'd drink pulpy orange juice in round cold tumblers and i'd breakfast on bowls of purple berries on the porch in the watery morning breeze, in the fields distilled into a breeze.  i'd walk to the pharmacy, past small green lawns and small white house and small huge elms, know all the customers by name because they're also my neighbors postmen grocers doctors.  i suppose at lunch i'd sit outside, on Quiet Main Street, probably on the bench in front of the big pharmacy store window.  

and i'm sure i'd drive to the lake|pond|dock in the evenings, i'd write in journals and bring picnics and not say anything.  

and my world would be blue and green and white.

and my world would be cerulean and emerald and white.

and spring would be canary

and summer amber,

and all mornings aquamarine.

there may be birdcages,

or better, birdfeeders.

certainly windchimes

and ebony wooden floors

i'd go to the small town because,

well,

that's the only place i could find a job perhaps.

and maybe they need a town pharmacist.

and my friends would say why are you moving there?  aren't you going to get bored?

White Picket Fence Town doesn't have a city theatre,

White Picket Fence Town only has three restaurants--two of which serve fried chicken ifyouknowwhatimean--

what will you do with your time?

and in the first second i'd worry,

but then in seconds two through infinity, i'd realize that is the why: so that i will have time.

, so my world is big enough for me to inhabit all of it,

and for all of it to inhabit me.

(this daydream inspired by Joyce Carol Oates' "Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear," by a childhood of watching The Andy Griffiths Show, and by a recent show on NPR about a cashless and hence cash-register-less society.)