Street repair. . .

It takes an awful lot of noise
to fix
the cracks and pits
the chips and nicks,
and what all else
they’re digging for
all too nearby,
out there.

Drills’ shrill pounding,
deep resounding,
hits me like
a ton of bricks,
may not break bones
like stones and sticks,
but does wear nerves
quite ragged bare.

Some place
in life,
I pray,
will bring
some backwards funnels,
shown up like lights
at ends of tunnels,
or needed strikes of lightning,

allowing me
then to foresee
how will come,
once on the other side and free,
deep, lasting quiet,
breath and peace,

through me,
and through all fellow life,
in realms
of water, earth and air.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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