Everywhere I have lived,
And that has been many places,
In Vegas – road construction seems to find me.

This morning construction crews pull up on my cul-de-sac,
They are pouring out equipment and setting cones on the street noisily,
As though their orange flyers admonishing on-the-street parking were not enough
They are announcing their intent as callously as they can
At 10 in the morning;
They set up and disappear,
As construction workers are wont to do
And return with more equipment at noon.

The worst offense I’ve ever endured was a stretch of road,
On Rainbow Blvd;
I was living with a girl near Mountains’ Edge at the time;
Where within the week of moving, they had cordoned off four miles of road (which was my route to work) and proceeded to stay there until the week I moved,
Which was only five months,
Having had the house sold out from under us by the landlord not paying his mortgage;
A twenty minute drive turned to an hour under that closed corridor and I swore against the all-too-absent construction workers every day on that commute.

Every commute I’ve ever made has been obstructed in some way
By orange cones arranged and then seemingly forgotten,
Roads torn up and left for some other days’ work that seems to come ages later,
For drivers that seem to crawl with caution, their safety imperiled by asphalt two lanes over.

Now I wonder how long this new feat on this tucked back street that needs no necessary work at the moment will be,
How it will affect my route and those of my neighbors,
How the noise of ripping up the road will bode for a writer who sleeps in late,
And these teeth are ground to points in the dreams of jackhammer birdsong,
The bovine moaning of gravel mixers,
The hissing snakes of heated tar,
This cul-de-sac is a jungle now and the street is not yet marred.


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