Pine Needles on Red Brick

the road winds through heavy
forest, its red brick, 1930s, CC Corps
efforts staunched by rubbery grass lobes thrusting
between interstices, a laminated
path for fiends who see the night's
dusty gloom press against
ancient muscled biceps.

those who escaped depressive
job markets bonded with city
laborers from Boston,
the entire project working against
the fault lines of starvation and divorce, the green pine needles covering it all now,
like a sticky, sharp-edged foam.

those fathers met death long ago,
or their pensions faded as they melted in nursing homes,
their kids writing them letters once a year at Christmas,
when pine scent seemed appropriate,
but heart-felt visits too much
an effort for children bred
on angst and self-pity.