Hunky armed men in heavy boots
Carried their shovels like rifles.

They were the finest workers
The municipality could afford.

Through the dust could be seen
The outline of the last ’70s piano bar,
The dusty ferns and jars of outdated antipasta
Waiting secondary demolishment.

At night, their lanterns
Were viewable for up to five city blocks.

And, next morning, the day crew returned
To clear more detritus of a decade
Of how politics got done.

(Note: this is my fifth hour poem, but my phone got wacky and I had to restart.)