I'm driving the streets of the city in a boxy white truck —
the one with DEPT OF POETRY stenciled across it.
I'm wearing a bright orange vest for maximum visibility
and a hard yellow hat because — sometimes, things fall.

I'm blocking intersections laying fresh slabs of concrete poetry.
I'm smoothing the edges, working on accessibility, diverting
traffic around 14-story sonnets, punching a 5–7–5 lane haiku
through the Mercer mess. I have traffic cones.

I have big triangular signs that say POETS IN ROAD AHEAD.
We're tearing up this place with metaphor — again, me and
other poets at work standing around in bright orange vests.
Sometimes we don't look all that busy — but we are.

When those twin towers came down, the poets were there —
7th or 8th on the scene — wearing bright orange vests and
hard yellow hats because — sometimes, things fall. Sometimes
you need a poet in there to finish what needs finishing.

Humming and steaming — we call these tenuous places home.
Breathing and flushing, their curbs chalked with allegory,
we're building the skyline of this city one stanza at a time.
There's a thousand stories here — and they all need attention.

I'm a poet and I work for the city.
You're going to have to move your car.