by Joe Engel

The bulldozer beeps as it backs up,

warning us.

Some repairs take days,

some take years,

that car on cinder blocks

slowly turning to rust.

It seems this renovation

is going nowhere.

In winter, construction stops

and I am left with familiar floaters

in my eyes

like seeing my brain cells 

swimming in a sunbeam.

Outside, a leafless Aspen

takes the spotlight, lit

amid a break in the clouds,

emerging more complete than me.

What do the retired workers

think about their hard labor

torn down,

the bridge they raised

to hold all that rolled,

replaced with extra lanes?

The young outnumber the old,

spring from a blind spot;

new style, new slang

new sighs for old problems, 

they march, almost

ready to have kids of their own.

You reminisce with old words,

old ways as you beep in reverse

urging them to see

how their demolition widens

the route you laid 

when their problems were yours.