It might recite the weight of wheels,
copy insults from birds, giggle
at the tickle of rabbit feet or
mourn the stench of squirrel carcass,

at night quake when sirens scream	
“Bad News, Bad News, Make Way!”
but today the pavement bares drifting
snow and pleads for the sun’s warmth.

Come spring the tar will bear the insults
of jackhammer and bulldozer
and care nothing for words
on a map, its true name a secret.