Patching the Road

Patching the Road

They needed to patch the road.
Let’s wait until it isn’t winter anymore,
they said. Snow covered the road,
and melted, and fell again on the road.
The cold elbowed its way
into the street, split and pockmarked the asphalt.
They dropped bucketfuls of salt crystals,
a second snow.

They still needed to patch the road.
But once the streets were clear, drivers
flooded the road.
Tires deepened dips in the blacktop,
turned puddled spots into inside-out top hats,
bottoming out into the earth.

When will it slow down, the repair crew wondered.
At nights the crew left behind the tar
and concrete, drove their own cars home
and gazed into kitchen cupboards, fridges.
They sang to their babies. Made ice cubes.
Stared at the people in the television.
One worker dreamed the road lifted
from the ground like an orange peel.
He smiled, eyelids down.

The road had yet to be patched.
But if we do it now, where will everyone
who needs to drive here go?
The Director of Detours was on vacation.
Commutes would be wrecked
by construction right now.

More than ever, they needed to patch the road.
They watched the traffic hungrily
for signs of it slowing.