gano’s worms

a warm day in late march
and i’m sitting on the porch.
the sounds
of a rock crusher
rise from the bottom of the hill
where they are tearing out the roads
i used to drive in my sleep.

where are my bars and liquor stores?
gazo’s bait shop is closed and razed.
petersen’s cheap gas is cracked and gone
except for the small shelter the old man
used to hide in until a car pulled up; now
it gives a roof to the workers
when they need to smoke in the rain.

the crocus is up and the daffodil
is chasing it into the grey light.

where are my bars and liquor stores? where are
the rare hookers who cruised here, far from the main action?
they are tearing out the places where i used to live
or pass through on my way home to my life. they are calling it
rebirth. but i used to see a city here and now
i see a ghost:

the irish club is transparent and its lilting illegal voices
are drowned in the grind of the crushers.
i pick up the usual single beer for the short commute home
at andersen’s and find it will not stay in my hand. i wave to the shade
of a crag-faced whore, sad and unnoticed on the corner, and gazo’s worms
wriggle free and burrow into the soil of the remaining yards,
bringing flowers to the surface to decorate the tombs.