We didn’t ask the city to repave
our quiet street. Nobody made a stir.
We weren’t pothole-pocked and didn’t crave
improvement, didn’t lobby or demur.
But sawhorse signs appeared with closure dates,
and trucks with backup beeps like metronomes,
and vested men did work for low-bid rates
while fine black dust invaded all our homes.

The work was fast and stupid. Now our road
has lost a bit of crown and nothing drains
the way it should. Our gutters have been curbed
with tarry asphalt. We retain a load
of water multiplied by mythic rains.
Municipally we’re boggled and perturbed.

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