Construction cones have sprouted. There's a gap,
A sidewalk tunnel to an underground
Whose hard-hats peak above the curb. Our map
Allows no warrens -- so we ask around
To see if any neighbors know what's right
Beneath their feet -- a shifting sentiment,
Perhaps, or sluices ghosting wasted, trite
Arroyos. Tenderfoots on parched cement
Declaim, "It's awful tony -- all the dudes
Descend there," clouding pits and places lashed
To public consciousness. The gap extrudes
A phantom pain from asphalt; abashed,
The dude ranch stands and sees how awful goodness
Bulldozes, while the men produce excuses.
No comments:
Post a Comment