Waiting for the light to change, we hear the

 clang, the bang-bang of labor. Deep in fog

 they hoist the unthinkable. In this crumpled

veil of moisture they secure the everyday, the

hold-your-nose buddy, use at your own risk.

I count twelve port-a-potties on the flatbed.

He counts the seconds it takes the light to

change. The festival ended on Sunday and

fall reappeared like the roots of your natural

color. The honey wagon secures its cargo

and I know the bowels of winter lie ahead.

The heart of labor beats strong and is fierce.

We turn left and weave our way out of town.