Sealed Over

The smell came first.

Before the corner, not yet seen—

the heat and thick sweet burn

of something being pressed between

the street and what was under.

They'd rerouted me along

the grass verge, bag against my chest,

a cone tipped wrong

at the curb's edge.

The black seam still steamed.

A worker in a vest

stood where the new road gleamed

wet, not dry yet.

I breathed through my collar.

The crew moved slow and deliberate.

I walked the thin verge smaller

with every step.

Something about the smell,

the heat, the way the street looked dressed

in something you couldn't tell

from new, exactly.

Just covered. Just done.

I got home and the smell stayed with me.

I left the window open some.