In May 2006 when I wrote the verses below I worked downtown and bike commuted along Edgewood every day. Since my company moved to the same neighborhood, I’ve returned to my old bike route, and pass the location where I witnessed this scene:
The helmeted surgeons
Transplanting the heart of the street
Did not need to return my greeting;
Because I could not see their eyes.
They had the hearts laid out
beside the hole they’d opened
in the sun-softened asphalt;
The old one, chipped and orange,
and the new one, burnished and gray:
Cast-iron conches a man could pick up
and hold in his hands.