Home Variety XVII. On Construction

XVII. On Construction

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From where did all these brick slabs arrive?

Was it while I was asleep?

Did they seep from some unseen attic

and drip down from behind some locked door?

And when did they take this town away?

It seems today the only thing I recognize

are the stoplights

blinking cautionary reds.

Give me a sign:

“No parking.”

It shows me a sign:

“Under construction.”

I am disdainful of these metals;

they are not what I adore.

They move so quietly…

Can’t hear them

as they creep up from behind.

I feel I’ve lost it and need a reminder.

So if this is a dream and everything is fine,

and the slabs are just frogs croaking in time

and the bricks that were built on top of my memories

are destined to crumble like sight and Jenga blocks,

then let the concrete we pissed on when we were twelve

sprout old wings and a conscience

and flap away from all this new money.

Preserve something, preserve yourself.

forslu1@stolaf.edu