tar, baby

it seems all over town that mayor-for-life Menino is re-paving the roads. smooth, unlined sleek black rivers that car tires become quiet on. paving trucks flood stretches of the formerly bumpy with a bow-shaped tide of warm sticky wonderfully smelling tar. at night, with few cars on the road, it's like lake water. you skim the surface, cutting no wake. the purr of engine, the muted roar of tires take you back 50 years when cars and roads owned Eisenhower America and the wild whooping freedom of the forever teenager hopped in souped-up jalopies from town to town. i swell up a bit after work, one cheap beer buzzing in my ears, when the old pavement succumbs to the new, the bad skin blasted away like a dermabrasion treatment. 'work done' on the city gives us a temporary stay on whatever debilitated horrors the sick economy has in store. the last glass of champagne before the besotted lunatic jumps out the window.