They ripped out the village bus stop.
It was old, generations of asses having come and gone.
It’s a sunny Monday,
comfortable enough to sit on the sidewalk,
watching for our bus;
there’s not many people who would take it today,
just us.
The next day: there’s men installing the new one;
panes of glass, metal rods, and fresh wooden slats.
I didn’t have anywhere to go today,
but I went on a walk anyway, and saw the men.
Their jackets thrown to the side,
lunchboxes and water bottles out,
laying on the grass,
they smoke and make jokes,
not so much laughing though.
Later that day: you say you didn’t notice,
and I think to myself how not?
The next day: we leave, shrugging under our bags,
looking at the new bus stop.
Perhaps we’ve been here too long.
The village is the same—
I turn to you, to the curl over your ear,
and I think, maybe, yes, the quiet has changed.
How does a still thing change?
When men come and rip it out,
leaving the ground marked for installation?
When men come, again, and put it back together?
Perhaps we’ll be these men.
You turn to me,
and I smile.
What does it matter, I think,
which men destroyed and which men built;
there is still a village bus stop.
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