The Potholed Road

May 18 2019

The potholed road.

Buckled

by freeze and thaw

and hard run-off

and latent frost

beneath the snow-free surface.

Broken

by dump-truck loads

of newly quarried rock.

The schoolbus, coming and going,

starting, stopping

hugging the shoulder

under blinking caution lights.

Battered

by the big yellow plow,

mammoth blade clattering

and mighty diesel throbbing

as it strains against its wheels.

The road, flexing under their weight;

man-sized rims

digging-in

with deeply ribbed treads

of hard-edged rubber.

The potholed road

winds into town

like a rambling conversation,

meandering, digressing

heading in this direction

and that,

steadily downhill

until its distance has been run

and there's nothing left to say.

The potholed road,

where the right-of-way

ignores the lay of the land,

reminding me

of water's unstoppable course.

The naturally flowing rivers

we blithely pave over,

the small subterranean lakes

where water still pools

and culverts overflow,

the gurgling run-off

that gains volume and strength

as the sun ascends

and heat soaks into the soil.

The potholed road

wasn't much to begin with,

rough and ready

and poorly paved

and repaired over and over

But is now an obstacle course,

its gravel washing away

its thin surface collapsing.

Where even the hasty patches

of quick-dry tar

are breaking apart,

savaging tie-rods and struts

and bushings and joints

and grease-packed bearings,

soft winter tires

and pinions and racks

and the backs of unwary drivers,

jarred

by the sudden heavy impact

of its bumps and hollows and pits.

Just a few years of neglect

and this country road would be no more,

its asphalt chipped away

as grasses and weeds took root

and saplings unfurled

and stands of trees flourished.

Until the forest returned,

an unbroken canopy

obliterating any residue

of man, and his handiwork.

Which is just what you'd expect

when nothing truly lasts.

Conversations petering-out

as the pauses lengthen

and there is less and less to say.

Water, taking the shortest route

to the lowest point possible;

unstoppable

until it does.

And the end of the road

that's sure to come

as pavement crumbles

and rights-of-way are overrun.

Or when the slow meandering route

becomes abandoned

in favour of speed;

a straight cut

of reinforced concrete,

bulldozing through the trees

as if a ruler had been laid

across the barren soil.