It's amazing, so smooth.
Amazing I say, how they
get the level right.
First one lane
and then the other
so you can't even see the
overlap in the middle
after they paint those
perfect yellow lines.
Such skill,
such control,
operating huge machines
the size of dinosaurs,
standing in stinking
clouds of hot fumes,
armed with shovels and
rakes.
And they do it safely
with their signs, STOP
and SLOW,
in perfect coordination,
almost as if it's all choreographed.
But they aren't dancers,
these people,
they are steady.
Sometimes all they do is
stand in the same place for hours.
Sometimes they nod,
always sticking to their
instructions
in whatever kind of weather
Spirit dishes out.
Compressing the asphalt
just fractions of inches
below manhole covers,
feathering little aprons
of asphalt
at the entrances of our driveways.
. .
That is how they resurface
our roads,
so we can drive to the
store
or to our jobs
or pick our kids up.
Honor to these hard-working souls.
I was going to get
self-righteous and say,
If they can do this work,
Working together,
Making those machines
Turn out perfect roads,
Why can't they . . .
But I'm not going to be
that petty.
The importance of what
they are doing
is not symbolic or
metaphorical.
It's like a miracle. No,
I think it is a miracle.
(Article changed on November 11, 2018 at 18:11)
2
2
1
