Road Work
They ripped
up the road, but the road was still good.
A long crack
had formed a fissure where small tufts
Of grass
rooted themselves between the asphalt.
The steel
grates, rusted well, held up to every foot,
Tire and
storm. The water drains painted sky blue,
The paint
peeled and chipping. It grew cracks,
Just like my
eyes started to show lines like start bursts.
A sign of
experience, the middling age, hints of pain
And gray
come subtle, but can still be hidden
as if old
age can be tucked away, dyed, stuffed
in a drawer,
forgotten until an earthquake sections
a road like how
a surgeon cracks open a sternum.
It’s better
to bare a white flag of surrender,
Relieve ourselves
of our weapons and useless armor.
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