Get To Work

Men at work, bumper to bumper tensile traffic, thick black bitumen. Everything seems to last longer then that grey granulated concrete that extends from Bodega, Cali- fornia to Savannah, Georgia. Blacktop pot-fill smells like the solid and searing work of roofers; hardhat knuckle down workers, men that stretch skyscraper towers, or suspend themselves over the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge. If only this endless line of steel on rubber wheels could steam roll past the frustrated flashing lights and pinstriped lattes honking horns. If only these orange jump suites, (sloth shaped men on armrest shovels,) spent less time blathering like this poem, we’d all be able to get to work.