John Grey
There’ll be construction
long after I am dead and buried.
Long after the monkeys
are off my back,
tears stop rolling
and I don't owe a damn thing.
Long after my memory is confused
with a fat pheasant shot at sundown
or a crazy roller coaster ride.
The cranes are out in force,
The muscled behemoths
swing their hammers,
flash their tattoos in the sun.
I'm just led to this
slaughter of time
to the music of jackhammers
and the song of
filling in spaces.
They don't build on me
for spite
or raise these temples
to confuse the issue.
One dies, one is born . . .
a philosophical crap-shoot.
Something serves its purpose,
a new Italian restaurant
muscles on in the ashes.
CLAMOR 