From a window, the boss calls to us
where we load his truck with bricks.
“Turn around fellas-look.”
A pheasant wades through the brown grass
across the street, vanishing
and emerging from the tangle.
A shed leans near a phone pole.
Bumpers glint from the weeds.
Blocks from the old foundation
angle through the earth.
The pheasant paces his courtyard.
We have killed the city which lived here.
The hieroglyph of its streets and rails
has joined the ancient lost tongues.
Buds unfold on a dwarf maple.
A rooster hollers.
My Impression: Earthy and philosophical, all with loose images.
More Links on Michael Lauchlan:
- Credit: This poem was from Writer’s Almanac
- More Poems: Love in Wine Country, Face, Usual, (several others with biography info)
See more excellent poems in Sabio’s Poetry Anthology