Insult and Injury

The rafters are vibrating. It’s stragely warm in December.
A concrete saw spinning up, cutting, spinning down.
A giant hammer, slamming into the ashphalt.
Andy Warhol is trembling above my desk.

Sound attacks through brick and glass.
We can’t tune it out, no matter how we try.
There’s an objective not of our own, but of the workers.
And the city workers work. Not even admitting they know English.

Sometimes a city or even a suburb makes noise you can listen to.
An old lawnmower in the distance can be soothing sometimes.
Little cars, big trucks, and motor bikes buzzing by.
Not this, I can’t stand it. It’s torture.

The diesel engine spins up and down.
They’re starting again, they’re laughing at us.
They are paid to insult us with their noise and their toys.
The rafters are vibrating. It’s strangely warm in December.

There’s no hope for concentration. Only insult and injury.
People get paid to do this.