Concrete
These are not our days. Soldiers
paving the roads you and I will drive,
burying the children you and I would
have, could we have a life together.
These are not our homes. Soldiers
patrolling the perimeter, shooting down
coyotes, poltergeists, men and women
looking in windows to see what’s for dinner,
for the days ahead. Futures are lying
to us, in wait for messiahs, or superheroes,
or dead presidents, telling us there are things
in the road, barbs and skulls and mines that need
paving down – that the good book says it’ll be
concrete to concrete when the time comes.
I live in the paving stones. I tried to free myself
like a weed in a crack, reaching for the signpost,
the streetlight, the sky between buildings – but I
snap back. There is nothing for skyscrapers
but creeping under the stones, and growing a web,
embracing the earth – this is my land, this is
my dirt, you are too big, I will turn you over
on your side and look into your windows, see
what you’ve cooked up for dinner, see who you have
stored in your cupboards – I will open you up,
I will open you up like you’re sick and I need your
heart out to make you better, I will make you better
from down here, from the paving stones that make you rise.
I am concrete and concrete
goes home to concrete when the time comes.