this morning I wake to jackhammer birdsong
and the smell of burnt rubber and coal
the street near my home narrows, then cracks
into a patchwork of turtlebacked pavement
scales of asphalt layer like skin under
a magnifying glass with
tar-colored scabs where the patches
don’t quite fit
in the summer, birds and mosquitoes
divebomb the water where potholes pucker
in the winter, frost traces the fissures
(split by temperature, and ice)
like ashy skin on an elbow
.
this month they’re resurfacing
ripping up layers with a huge metal-toothed comb
shredding the surface til it’s
a danger to feet and bike wheels, revealing
what lies beneath: gravel and sand
blackened as soot, a metal grate
brick cobbles, a squashed aluminum can
two more layers of asphalt
this city likes to cover its history up
spackling bullet holes, filling in marshes
taping together broken laws
tearing down burned buildings, concrete masses
leaving only weeds and parking meters along blocks
where homes used to be
.
this year they’re fixing roads
calling it recovery
but what the city covers still
remains, a scar gone deep beneath
shining new skin
a story silently sleeping, waiting
for the next winter to pass and spring to
melt away pavement like ice
waiting
for us to leave
and weeds to spring up, crack
gravel skin and metal bones
spread seeds where we used to
patchwork roads, where we covered the city’s body
with a shroud stitched of smoke.
August 14, 2010 at 4:03 pm
I love how you capture and pay homage to city living in your work.