New Board, Old Hole

The storefront downtown,

gutted out, then

just boarded up.

Plywood, fresh-cut,

like a bandage, bright blonde

against the old brick,

which is mostly gray dust

held together by hope

and something else

that crumbles if you look too hard.

The screws, they glint

so clean, so new,

holding nothing but a promise

of 'later,' or 'maybe.'

But it's just a cover, isn't it?

A flat, thin smile

over a mouth that's gone

missing.

Sawdust still clinging

to the cracked pavement,

a sweet, dry smell.

It's always just

plywood, isn't it?

Never really

fixed. Just hidden.