Everywhere there seems to be much construction;
concrete and rebars and backhoes galore.
I am beset with internal combustion;
delays and detours are making me sore.
Out on the freeways orange cones are a-poppin’;
they stand like sentries to barricade lane.
Inside my head pleasant thoughts are a-droppin’;
I have to struggle to keep myself sane.
Half way to Pittsburgh on turnpike I hurried;
high was a concrete wall hemming me in.
As a big semi approached, I was worried;
the space between us was terribly thin.
Back near my homestead was project forever;
many a year did construction go on.
Due date for completion was next to never;
(long was the night ‘fore the breaking of dawn.)
Even a drive to the mall is more irking;
that sign, Road Closed, instigates waves of pique.
Inside the fires of anger are working;
construction bother is week after week.
Yet all the same, by the plaza or dairy,
some inconvenience is par for the day.
Without construction this world would be scary;
thus I’ll put inside combustion away.
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