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WET CEMENT
Clinker:
The raw, inert
guts
poured into a bucket.
Activated
with common water.
(too little
and the end result
cracks)
Hands steady.
We pour. Somewhere,
A clock's heart throbs.
One day, two (maybe) -
And it's set.
Tending to the surface.
Smoothing out
the anxious bubbles.
Imprinting our descendant's skin
which preserves for
half a century, long after
we mere carpenters
surrender our trowels,
our gauge rakes, our
artisan paddles.
Night. A shift concluded.
We sleep.
That tabula rasa
stares expectantly
at the moon, its godmother.
Lovers, vandals, the
hulk of anonymous
men,
starving for any
lasting impression,
they too may leave
a mark; scratch out their
initials, scar this
constructed child
with a careless
tire print.
We prepare.
We cordon off.
We erect warnings.
We compound with quality materials.
We broker faith in our neighbors.
We fret. Too many pock-marked
progenitors
littered with selfish influence.
It's just concrete, you say.
We bow our heads,
casting concern upon
the trodden, rough-shod ground
while others amble, cock their chins,
eyes skyward.
