We said “Streets” and they knew
what we meant, patching the cracks in the road,
pouring down fresh new tar, paving over
till the ground beneath us was smooth.
It is a public work—
what is more public than an avenue,
a street, a boulevard? But I always said
“Streets.” And I hated the work.
One summer was enough,
taking the shit of a Lifer who felt
it was his mission to grind down college
boys who came, hands open—
“How can I help?” a go-to—
and when the Lifer explained, I would say
“okay,” and try . . . and do it wrong, the truck
too far to the right or
The left, crack not blown
out enough, too much or too little spray.
And he’d explain again, I’d say “okay”
and “Good to know” and then
Do it wrong again. And
again. The Lifer grew upset with me,
would alternate between silent treatment
and straight-up yelling. I
Took it. I took it. I
wanted to quit so many times. But no
I wouldn’t let him win.
Summer: hell together,
the Lifer and me, patching roads up and
down the city, his shitty classic rock
blaring, him jerking thumb
This way and that way, him
losing patience with me, me learning how
to say fuck you without saying the words:
I stand by the truck, I
Watch him work. I don’t make
a move to help. I am eighteen years old.
I know nothing of the world except the
inside of the Public
Works truck. Summer pays for
college. Summer gives meaning to shovel,
to pour, to blow, to patch. I don’t listen,
though, to Lifer. I don’t
See where he fits. Cosmic
faith requires his presence to have meaning;
I write these poems where he keeps showing up.
I can still see his eyes
Narrow in my rear view,
his hands raised in exasperation. He had
to survive me that summer, too, I know,
sheltered kid driving truck
For the first time, patching,
blowing, shoveling, letting the long hour
go without doing a damn thing, public
work or non-work while cars
Drove by and the world went
on. I never got used to working with
the Lifer and he never got used to
me, my last day a joy
For both of us. Lifer,
this poem is yours, a public work. I hope
it lasts longer than the streets we worked on,
my anger like a crack,
Blown out by the force of
time, twenty years of life telling me it
was meant to be, that summer you yelled and
yelled, and I took it; sealed
Over, this poem, sprayed,
beyond revision. I don’t want to open
afresh though I know streets, words, grow old and
I will see you again.
