The sun on East Hill
Glints off an orange diamond sign
In the gloved right hand of the
Construction worker
Who raises his left hand and
Circles his arm big
And gives a flourish of the wrist
As he points us on our way.
But I don’t want to go
Because now he is dancing,
Doing a spin move round the pole
Heels kicked high, flying in place
The cars behind ours on
Snyder Hill growing while he
Adds pizzazz to a job otherwise dull:
Sameness of cars, let some go
Stop some others, watch the other way
Let more go, stop those others
On the feet for hours, mist, sun, rain
And he electric-slides
Back in front of us,
Cycles his arm emphatically,
As if urging us to
Steal third base, keep going, seize the chance
And as the car turns to make
The worn trek to the school, to the work,
We almost believe.
For a moment, we don’t see
Sameness of a normal Tuesday.
We see the potential of home plate
Unguarded
And the world beyond it
Cheering us on.
5/25/2023 – Stacey Murphy
Stacey Murphy __ Poems 