The men on break make no move, as men, still working, hustle through carrying pipes and boxes. Strangely in 1999, of the four men on break, none are smoking. The Portapotty in light beige stands beckoning, but none enter, and the four men are gone, break over, as a man returns with a length of pipe, and the Bobcat continues to load sand into the black pickup truck. My view is between parts of the new building, looking into a driveway entrance, where two black men toss bags of cement on top of the load of sand, one tall and one short, in their hard hats and long sleeves. The short man backs the truck closer beside the cement bags and they pull a mixer trailer up, and connect to the back of the truck.
Construction goes on as long as poetry.
Here is a poem that is a step closer to a simple free verse exercise but still in a block paragraph form which encourages the reader to run lines together with a more prose-like reading voice. Not really a piano, kind of an organ, but worse than at the skating rink. There really is no one there, like the tech support when you get the recording that has been left on the job for the holiday weekend, or the website that was last updated many years ago. Your copy will be autographed by the poet upon request.