"Asphalt" by Al Ortolani

The road crew hired temps

between semesters

to stand beside the hopper

shoveling. The foreman

disliked college students.

He never learned our names,

referenced us by the tools

we carried—Skip and I

were Shovels, scraping the hot

mix into the conveyor.

Ronnie the college drop-out

advanced to Rake.

He followed the paver,

flicking the screed ridge

to a smooth seam.

All summer I shoveled the city

streets, made-do with whatever

shade I could catch. Each day

at five, we cleaned the tools

with diesel and putty knives.

Then we sprayed our boots,

kicking our steel toes against

a bar of rail line. We wet rags

with the diesel and scrubbed

our hands and faces.

Then I drove home, a towel

on the seat, another on the arm rest.

I hung my work clothes

on the fence behind the house.

They appeared capable

of walking off on their own.

"Asphalt" by Al Ortolani from Paper Birds Don't Fly. © NYQ Books, 2016.