When Newberry’s closed
in Franklin, New Hampshire—homely lime front

on Main Street, among the closed
storefronts of this milltown depressed

since nineteen twenty-nine;
with its lunchcounter for beans and franks

and coleslaw; with its bins
of peanuts, counters of acrylic,

hairnets, underwear, workshirts,
marbled notebooks, Bic pens, plastic

toys, and cheap sneakers; where Ruby
worked ten years at the iron

cash register, Alcibide
Monbouquet pushed a broom at night,

and Mr. Smith managed—
we learned that a man from Beverly

Hills owned it, who never saw
the streets of Franklin, New Hampshire,

but drew with a well-groomed hand
a line through “Franklin, New Hampshire.”