Inside Man

Paving the streets as I do, I qualify as a mender. The simplistic means of transportation are faulted without their guard. So in my own way, I am your safe keeper. In my own way, I am your guardian. In my own way, I am your still flowered mother. My womb, though empty, claims you and cares for nothing other than your well being. I’ve taken you from your Southern dirt roads into the thriving metropolis where your tar is always foul and your streets are the rocks for you to go forward upon safely. I pave for you my sweet love. I fill your facets with gravel and mortar, to keep your inside parts tucked away. I am excellent with pavement. The exterior world delights in my delicate care. However, follow me into my home with its chipped tiling and I am worthless as the fearful entrepreneur. Ask me to fix the inside cracks and I will cower. Ask me to wipe the sweat off the yellowing linoleum and I’ll run with my rag for the street lamps that line Central Avenue. Ask me to take to the cobwebs strung along the eaves, which dangle and drip drop drip onto this floor and I will let my excuses run like whiskey from the bottle to the drunk. I pave the streets. I am not an inside man.