Jobbing Poets

I recall an earlier city than this, that smaller metropolis had to be plugged into black handsets for distant listening. Often, I think that his city is a concrete megaphone, one we have made from fabricated conversations. Denizens daily must recycle themselves, with ever louder words. A few artisan poets, with their mortar and spades, grout the cracked and leaking windpipes, hoping to calm the roar of a casual chitchat. They labor on, to shore-up crumbling words, before they all unplug themselves from silence forever.