Concrete forms
and orange cones
have clogged my way
for weeks.
Cement trucks,
plural, a backhoe,
a Caterpillar
and half a dozen dualies
park each day
askew on the hillside
impeding my route
to work,
to school,
to the grocery.
I wend my way
Monday
Tuesday
by the construction.
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
traffic snarls and bucks.
Saturday and
Monday
(pause Sunday)
the same tired workers
hold up, once again,
the STOP —
—then SLOW sign.
Will this path
to somewhere,
destination unclear,
ever materialize?
The summer storms says,
as did Rome:
Not today.
2026 Poetry Challenge - Current Events - Dry Humor - Humor - Petty - Poems - Rants - Short-form Musings - Snarky - Unserious
