The construction crew is picnicking
on our front lawn again. Sprawling,
propping themselves up on elbows
and taking a break between bites
to banter and laugh. The loudest
of them has long hair and a beard
that makes me daydream of Jesus
and the disciples swapping robes
for some orange and yellow vests
which pick up on the Marigolds
we planted in the back garden.
And why not, really? Eventually,
when they finish up their work,
none of them will draw a bath
and enjoy a soak in our tubs.
They’re digging up our street
and wrestling with ductile iron,
polyvinyl chloride and steel pipe
to bury beneath the frost line.
Everything they help make flow
will land in glasses, Brita filters,
vases and all manner of sinks
that they’ll never see or touch.
The town says the work will take
months, rather than seven days.
But then we’ll turn the faucets
without ever thinking about them,
much less giving thanks or praise.
I watch them eating on the grass
and apologize silently to God
for tending to reach out only
when what he made breaks.