Click here to listen to Don Bogen read this poem.
Schmidt made me Like others each in turn as the street grew south I was a pit in clay A wall of cinderblock holding out the damp My parts began diverging, my purposes cleared I was tar and poured cement I was a skeleton of two-by-fours, the wind between my ribs
Floorboards gave me layers
Men stood on them, smoking cigarettes
Boys climbed down ladders to explore my partitions
I was a concert of hammering, band saws whined at my perimeters
My horizon was a battlefield of trenches and stakes
Schmidt’s truck kept bringing my devices
Pipes for fluids, wires to connect me with the world
Around me my brothers stood up in the field
Only the oldest trees were taller
Fresh asphalt welcomed Schmidt’s truck, marked my border
Sidewalk traveled beside it
I support habitation, my green robe is growing
My arms extend to every corner
At my heart new sheet metal sings in the heat
