Wednesday, August 11, 2010

In Which My Day Is Loud And Fragrant

Infested now, my neighborhood, with such
Variety of workmen as I find
Impossible to name them all, has much
In common with disaster zones. I wind
Around its streets and cul-de-sacs aboard
Deep Blue and see some roofers, yes, and by
My "circle's" deepest curve, not just a hoard
Of all-but-shirtless men, but also -- fie! --
A reeking porta-potty twixt a pile
Of sand and some huge trucks. The din's profound.
It's gypsy contract season. With a smile
And promise of low pricing all around,
They've sucked in all my neighbors, it would seem.
How long will their work last, though, do you deem?

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