Jackhammering Limestone

You ask about the leaves and I tell you it’s been so dry here
the leaves are just giving up, turning brown, falling off the trees,

which all look dead. This might be a metaphor for the election or
might be a metaphor for nothing—it’s hard to say. Each morning

I wake up to machines across the street jackhammering limestone,
shearing away more rock-face and turning it to rubble strewn across

red clay soil so dry it heaves and cracks. It’s been seven weeks of
drilling and blasting, drilling and blasting, and that’s not a metaphor

for anything either except maybe my mid-life crisis, which I’m having
surely as there’s whiskey next to me and I’m up all night wondering

if I can be hairless again in some risqué places. Most days I refuse
to believe we’re doomed, despite growing evidence to the contrary.

I…

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