Reflections in Construction

AS I sit by glass,
I notice the inlaid cross
on the apartment building
looming over the
construction scene,
as they tear up something
that didn't need fixing,

or at least something
I didn't see as broken:
sure, cracked pavement
and uneven sidewalks
casting surreal nighttime
shadows,

but such is the essence
of this city,
describe dually as
the city time forgot
and the city that has
been breathing forever--
heavy and laboured
through weather--
but always breathing,

and now they are destroying
it in the name of a
sickening word:
gentrification, acrid on
tongue, gentrification,
I repeat with maddened intensity,

contemporary capitalistic
kitsch, always ending up
looking inauthentic,
Cobblestones!
Cobblestones on Oak St.

It has never been broken,
melting pot of citizens
frequenting local business,
but now they're replacing
this strip of pavement
for broken bricks better
suited for horses.

At what cost? I ask as
functional concerns
dissipate into ethical
considerations.

Why are we spending money
on a street of the city
that seems bustling, day
and night, when other wards
remind me of grotesque
post-apocalyptic imaginings:

symbolic markings for dead
still visible on fronts of collapsed
houses, cracked windows,
untamed grasses reminiscent
of wilds, startling darkness
as sun descends beneath the horizon,

taken wholly to represent
gross injustice that has not
petered after Katrina,
sad fact that the people who
made the city,

the people who struggled
under the weight of slavery
in Quarter houses,
terrible tales of being stuck
in ovens because of indiscretions,

are subjugated once again,
under a different cloak, yes,
but subjugated once again,
left abandoned, out of the city
or in abject conditions,
barely living and nothing is
being done.

Incompetence has
not faltered, broken levees
replaced with fast fading
dreams,
the city that stood forever
seeming more forgotten
with each day.

AS I stare at the scene,
confusion bending to anger
bends once again to sadness,
remembering canvassing
on election day for Obama,
as I was in one of those
apocalyptic neighbourhoods.

Every single person I talked to
was going to vote,
each of them expressed renewed
optimism in the wake of failed policies,
and yet the sight today
reminds me that the national
political arc doesn't necessarily
represent local realities:

governors, mayors, congressmen
are responsible for the welfare
of the people, especially a people
so marred by disaster,
and they have failed,

as they replace usable pavement
with cobblestones, in the
name of gentrification
they demonstrate their commitment
to tourism but not reality.

My heart breaks, staring at the
construction workers who could
be reviving culture rather than
replacing it,

but I must go now.
I no longer belong to the city--
this cannot be my fight--
but please, somebody else
take up arms.

Surreal shadows and
unmatched spirit depend on it.