Written By: Richard Krohn
1. We the tiny, the many,
who choose to squat in your potholes,
are rent-free nomads sleeping at peace,
inch-thick plates of steel for roofs,
your sweeps of nightly headlights
patrolling our crushed-stone homes.
2. Each dawn we gather wind-
blown tabloids, read them by rays
slivering between metal and macadam.
Impervious to your exhaust, our days
obey your rush-hour rhythms,
our clocks, the thocking of tires.
3. We feast on asphalt crumbles,
dance to hums of your sub-woofers,
the capricious chorus of your horns.
We amuse ourselves with late-night dramas:
ambulance anxieties, cops in hot pursuit,
sirens racing to frame-house blaze.
4. While summer bakes blacktop,
we splash in our own swimming holes;
our winters are great for skating.
All year we imagine your unspoken praise
for housing we choose to eschew,
the paving we save.
5. Visionaries of the here and now,
hard-to-get talk show guests,
self-help gurus, potential darlings
of both your political parties,
our endless quest is to make every
new pothole ground-breaking.
About the Author
Richard Krohn has spent most of his life in the Mid-Atlantic, but with substantial periods of time in the Midwest and Central America. He presently lives in Bethlehem, PA. His earlier work appeared in journals like The Bitter Oleander and Chautauqua, and more recently in Poet Lore, Southern Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Rattle and Arts & Letters, among many others.