*Road Work, Midi-Pyrénées*
Rain soaked sodden night descending and
the street lights' final word is in -
who follows the road will reach the place
but not begin.
Seven days pass between asphalt and dirt
as many nights as well,
then sundown transubstantiates:
brown sun in the windows looks like mire and clay,
only because the road workers
have camped for the week
near the southern fence, in each face
a look of grease and brickdust,
and two lanes carrying on.
With grass and sod retreating,
all they own is carried beneath the shirt:
a pelt, a singlet, scars and books.
Road works don't end for them,
just cross into other space, more dirt.
Watching, I build what I can.
A unison they'd despise
Of stillness and travel that can't converge
on any place other then the here they've already left.
There are no tools for me to cart when leaving France,
so I just turn;
how long will it take before it dries,
the white paint that points the way for me,
and for the cars that know only that
direction is the very last thing.
--
http://nathanhondros.blogspot.com
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