I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three… nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn’t see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar  

Farewell To Deputy Manager Eric
Sacked from his Official Post
As Governor of Roads
A functionary and slovenly
Tower blocks surround him
In the pubs he sips G&T

Say goodbye and wonder why
Police pull up in Mercs & BMWs
A breed apart.
The cops score
Get back on their road to nowhere.

The white clouds are endless. 

The roadwork continues.
Around the bus station
Rowdy travellers. Uncommon people
Congregate. Pity the roadworkers labouring
On a June day of digging and earth moving.
Their sweat drips into the soil.

They will not grow old as the circumspect intend.
It is mid-July and these men work overtime.
Who knows what they eat? Living is hard work.
Laying down a tiny part of a new road
Sweat drips into the soil.
Every day is difficult.
The workers argue all day. Tetchy.
They wish inaction was on its way.
A holiday. But it isn’t. 

At home these men’s children
dip their faces into cold towels
grunt when their fathers
arrive home after eight hours

hard graft and, thank God, they laugh😃