where time stops

First one appears, then another. Then another - it's now officially a crowd. Thirty cents worth of petrol, please. He pulls away slowly. They thought he'd never leave, shaking their heads and spitting in disgust at the noisy clanking of a motor car. One man offers a cold drink to a stranger after the stranger purchases a stamp, tongues it, and pounds his fist three times on the wooden counter securing to a postcard the stamp of a miniature portrait of a dowager's unsmiling face. He looks into the eyes of the Postmaster General under the shiny blue cap.
"When will they get this here card?" The clock above the Postmaster's head remains frozen for weeks at 10:45 A.M.
The Postmaster holds the card in inky fingers, squints at the address in France.
"I have no idea."
The man nods 'I thought so' disapprovingly.

photo: Walker Evans. 1930's.