My mother tells me that the township has dispatched a work crew to their small suburban street – something to do with the gas lines, or was it the sewer system? That morning my father walked his cup of coffee to the curb to observe their progress. Glancing up and down the street: at the end of each driveway an old retired man, like little boys peering through the fence at a construction site. My father sighed, picked up his morning newspaper, and returned to the living room.
gathered from the ground
Note: haiku previously published in bottle rockets #27.