How to Do It | Poetry

There is a building going up

At the end of my street,

Nothing happened in August,

And now it's September,

They are there again, working.

Twelve enormous concrete

Blocks move slowly, so slowly

On a fork lift towards the wall

On another day I sense I

Wouldn't notice this at all.

I watch a man nearing

On a scooter, tanned shins,

Head high, strong, beautiful.

I wonder where he is going,

He slows and parks,

He goes into the site.

There is a picture of luxury

Apartments hung by someone

On the side the the building.

The smooth white interiors,

Are so different from what I

See now, that if I didn't know

This happens everyday, things

Are built, things are envisioned,

Towers of stone are balanced

On machines and directed 100m

Into the air, if I didn't know that,

I would say this beautiful man is

Insane; joining a troop of builders,

Playing at god, wacko creators,

Impossible dreamers, a nuisance.

But this is how things are built,

In miracles mixing with miracles,

Slowly, coming to it every day.