The pothole cover

The sky grows dim, the pothole cover sighs.

Another day of footprint soul abuse,

Its metal ridges so polished from reuse.

Perhaps this plastron is a pain disguise.

From out its holes the steam cascades, it tries

To cloak the tears it cannot help effuse.

All rubbish, dreck, and horror we produce

Distressingly lays below the cover's guise.

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Oh why do you sit calmly, day by day

Pretending the storm is still? And shielding the

Contemptible, ungrateful feet away?

You save our soles from falling in a sea

Of darkness. Could you somehow find a way

To grant yourself the same grace you give me?

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