Civic Improvement

July 6 2015

They're putting in sidewalks on the local streets.

A neighbourhood, close to downtown

that the city grew around
and past,

of modest houses, on spacious lots

and large leafy trees.

Where private lawns end

and pot-holed roads begin,

an open border

between crumbling shoulders

and grass, gravel, weeds.

Then asphalt, scarred with tarred-over cracks

and macadam patches, repeatedly patched

since milk came by horse-cart

door-to-door.

Where the walkways are trampled grass, skirted ditches

kitty-corner, and unofficial

spilling onto the road.

Because we follow-in the foot-steps

of those who came before,

like cow-paths

meandering through the fields.

Soon, they will be geometric;

the concrete perfection

of even sidewalks, and gleaming curbs

will replace the genteel neglect

that served so well.

The sense of character, overwhelmed

settled earth, paved under.

And we will have become like all the others,

a subdivision

of uniform streets.

The alleys, though, will remain,

that narrow public space

where backyards meet.

So I will still be able to walk

in unmanicured greenery,

dew-drenched grass

soaking my pants,

burrs

attaching themselves.

Wild thoroughfares, free of cars,

where the odd deer skittishly darts

skunks strut snottily

dogs excitedly sniff.

Where wild flowers bloom,

undiscovered

islands of colour

bursting-out each spring.

And where free-range children play

in shallow puddles, rain-filled ruts,

shoeless

and covered in mud.

Walking the dog the other night, I noticed the surveyor's stakes, the spray-painted lines on the asphalt, the excavated piles of earth. Apparently, our number came up, and the city crews have started putting in sidewalks and curbs. They are determined to sanitize our genteel old neighbourhood, another example of the unstoppable progress that thoughtlessly sacrifices character for uniformity. Which is too bad, because I rather like the unimproved look: the natural contour of the land; the way private property seamlessly melds into public space; the democratic feeling of streets that are open to pedestrians as much as they are to cars. At least if the streets forget, this poem will remember.

So this another of those nostalgic throw-back poems that celebrate a romanticized past, back when we were all free-range kids. Which I guess is what you write as you get on in years.