There exists on a street ten
five by five foot square
intermittent holes in a sidewalk.
Each is the future home for a tree.
For one whole day a Mexican worker stands in a hole and digs.
He digs past
till all you see,
is a fleeting shovel of dirt
fly onto now a large mound.
At intervals, as he descends,
he will pause to catch a breath -
An envious smirk for wild, eager youth,
a tumescent, hidden ogle for shapely legs,
a puzzled self-reflection at both hustle and idle well-to-do's,
a scorn dread glance for windblown derelicts,
a vacant stare for hobbling age,
and with resolute, bittersweet resignation,
a return to work.
For his coffee and lunch breaks,
he sits slumped,
feet dangled over the hole.
he eats and drinks in silent contemplation of,
who knows -