One day after the war, drivers were warned
to park elsewhere. Trucks came with hot
asphalt, the most acrid smell I’d experienced
in my four summers. They pickaxed and dug,
filling the holes and cracks, then spread
a perfect black surface sidewalk to sidewalk.
So I thought the way of the world was that things
got renovated: grass was cut in the summer,
leaves were raked and burned each fall,
and all the rough places everywhere
would one day be made smooth.