Nothing more than foreign rocks
Shored upon tire tracks and
Scattered upon broken tiles
That create a concrete path
To wherever it is you need to go.
Mounds of dirt next to
Vast gorges filled with pipes
And the plastic refuse of those
Who pass by with groans
Of inconvenience in their day.
Blocks of concrete lay flat
And defeated, leaning against
Brightly colored steel railing
Designed to entertain children
As they sled down dirt on cardboard.
Jagged spines with twisted patterns
Crawling up and down,
Poking out from anywhere and
Everywhere metal pikes lay,
Disturbed from terrestrial slumber.
No workers to be seen, their job done,
Someone else will take over,
There exigency abounds,
But there is no haste,
For winter is still two months away.
Author’s Note: When I first arrived, my district was a torn up mess. Now, it looks nice and orderly. Things get fixed up eventually. They usually try to get it all done before winter, at the very least.
Mining and the Environment (Prose)
Tea Bricks and Piercings (Prose)