already steaming, sweat soaked. Wood chip mulch,
a shade too dark, freshly laid over the sludge of grassless nature strips.
Tree limbs lost last week for obstructing power lines.
Fluorescent jersey clad men transfer decorative only furniture,
belonging to no one in particular,
from display apartments to the still park-braked truck.
Gas running, so we stay
spaced out in place behind the tape and wait.
When does a place become a neighbourhood? Unpeopled
high-rises, footpaths swallowed
by tape, trucks and sawdust. Hammers whacking
an hour after we thought they’d stopped.
Two days ago cardboard boxed cargo was carried
up to our apartment, chairs, tables,
a seventeen centimetre high TV stand. Left
a trail of broken styrofoam
when we scrapped the packaging.
Next day, vacuumed away
by building management.