A swinging pickaxe collides with rebar as I watch
The worker curses, missed his mark
Wipes his brow, glances at the jackhammer, thirsts for a
motor
Ahead the tunnel looms, a blackened circle punched
through the mountain
A curving timberline seemingly bends with the slope
The queue snails forward a few meters
August road work in the Northeast has many enemies on the
interstate
Sharp horns release themselves happy to be heard
Noontime sun swipes at our patience, I haven’t spoken
since Fairfield
The day is adrift, a lonesome berg for me
Air vents releasing manufactured comfort assault my eyes
Tearing I have no recourse, my nose is a stream
Onward he spouts his speak, tales of life, interest, and
consequence
Orange signs litter the median every quarter mile crewed
with dictatorial purpose
The narratives of the driver are lost on me, I have my
dam
Constructed with cones of unheard desire, it is the world
I choose
Knew my place in this row long before
Taillights pulse for a second fusing a brilliant thought
for me
Blowing my nose again, I think of sharing it with him
He booms on about his time in Paris
Ten times a charmed story retold, my mind whirls in the
quiet.
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