Oct/Nov 2004 Poetry


by Nick Bruno


She studies the concrete—as workmen grunt
at the effort of digging to the foundation
wall's footing—shovel and pickaxe hit
the wall, drawing sparks in the fleeting light.
They speak little, but growl deep curses

at one another: their flashlights' tunnel vision
illuminate small pockets of life. The smell
of the regurgitated earth fills the air
with its damp musk; the sound
of the pneumatic drill—boring

through the wall to create an aperture
where none was before—a door
to the outside. A window to watch
and calculate the labor of each movement,
the sweat expended to reach there.

While they excavate to get in, she realizes
that it was time she found a way out.


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