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.




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