Road and Crew
They are stripping the streets
as one might peel dead
sunburned skin from a forearm
more or less straight but they
pummel with pneumatic hammers
and pick with curved and heavy blades
that tired pavement so turn it
into cookie crumbles that crunch
under my slow tires directed by fluorescent
flags, arrowed lights, and reddened arms
that will peel with tattoo ink or not, no shield
from the sun that August imposes, gouging
into tissue with unseen axes and pikes that will
expose the injury and lasting legacy upon and under
hides much younger than the streets just feet below.