The jackhammer has been eating the curb since dawn

The jackhammer has been eating the curb since dawn,

a rhythmic, jagged throat clearing that shakes the glass.

I watch the yellow tape flutter in the exhaust,

waiting for the neighborhood to finally be done.

Near the corner, the new pour is a dull, wet silt,

smooth as a lake until you look at the edge.

A kid’s sneaker has left a shallow, ribbed dent,

a permanent stumble preserved in the hardening sediment.

And there, half-drowned in the rising gray sludge,

is a crushed cigarette filter, yellow and stained.

It’s locked in place now, a small, cheap sin

that the city will keep until the frost breaks it open.