KS Culbreth

Concrete and Crabgrass, the Greening Copper

I.
Seagulls called in late-August’s evening chill
Farewells, clandestine, at the old depot
Renascent spumes littered the fountain sill,
The square choked by weeds willful as despots.
Upon the splattered wall an awkward pause
I gestured toward the chinks of the sidewalk
Where crabgrass had torn with patient claws
Constant as shadow’s sweep, its claiming wake.
Solemnly, you mused then shook your head
Unsure if I were pointing out the weeds
Or at the grout, whose purpose is to hold,
A bond exposed to wear and trouncing wound
— I’d but adduced the cause and course unseen
— The impulse, ineluctable, in seed.

II.
At sanguine dusk, the depot’s roof and spires
Sheathed in copper — all but some new flashing
Untouched by air’s oxidizing spores —
Became a teal circus tent, stark and clashing.
Wouldn’t it be pretty, you said, to polish
All that green rust back to a brazen shine,
To shed that slough, that shroud of tarnish
Or re-dress it in an unblemished skin?
To show no sign of age is the false allure
Of alloys unnaturally blent and forged;
The greening rather proves its core is pure
Reminds us of what we ought not forget:
— To remove is not to undo each blemish;
— To re-green as weeds is our nobler wish.