Flagman
May 6 2021
Road
repair season.
After a
hard winter
of freeze
and thaw.
As soon as
the ground
is free of
frost.
When the
ditches brim
and
culverts bulge
and the
first green shoots poke out.
Where a
world-weary flagman
has waved
to a stop
what
little traffic there is.
A big yellow school bus
full of
sleepy-eyed kids
and my car
directly in back,
black
exhaust
rumbling
from the tailpipe.
So I sit,
in the
stink of diesel
under a
layer of dust
with the
sound of heavy machines,
unaccustomed
sun
beating
remorselessly down.
It's like
painting the Golden Gate bridge.
Before you
get to the end
it's time to begin again.
Because
this road will never be finished.
Potholes
reproducing
like rabbits,
shoulders
washing out.
The
surface crumbling
and
pavement slumping
and cracks
running riot.
It's the
power of water
against
the ingenuity of man.
Mostly
slapdash repairs
cosmetic
fixes
and quick
sketchy patches
that won't
last a winter
if that.
But it's a
good summer job
holding
that bright red flag,
giving a
big thumb's up
and a
generous smile
as the
line of restive drivers
idles
slowly past.
And when
the traffic quiets
sitting on
the side of the road,
a
well-thumbed book in hand
or scrolling
through the phone.
The
flagman was cute,
blonde
hair
under a
baseball cap
with a
pony-tail out the back.
Even the
farmer's tan
seemed to
flatter her.
I bet the
crew
gave her a
hard time.
A woman in
a man's world.
A girlish
dilettante
among the seasoned
journeymen.
In this year (and counting!) of Covid, I infrequently go into town. But I did yesterday, and was caught off guard to find my 2 lane road – roughly paved at best – had three separate crews of heavy machinery deepening ditches and filling potholes. Unfortunately, I think the giant earth movers were doing more damage to the already distressed pavement than improved drainage will ever prevent!
It's been a particularly hard winter. The road is especially bad. But it's always like this: every spring, a slalom course of potholes and crumbling pavement and slumping sections; and every spring, just enough superficial slapdash repair to keep the thing intact.
The flagmen were all guys. This time. Construction work like this is pretty macho. But if there ever is a woman, it's almost always the person holding the big red sign and clunky walkie-talkie, and rarely the backhoe driver or asphalt shoveler.
I'm hoping the 2nd last stanza catches the reader by surprise: making the assumption the flagman is just that, and then having it turned on its head. Not that the poem is intended as some sort of political statement denouncing sexism. Really, it's all in the spirit of fun!
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