The Pothole’s Ghost

He stands alone,
an obelisk beneath the sun,
his hands still blackened
from the tar’s old murmur,
the shovel, stiff like history,
resting at his side.

The street is silent now,
the fracture filled,
its gaping maw of ruin smoothed,
a sleek insignificance
to all who pass.

They will not notice.
They never notice—
the absence of damage,
the absence of complaint.

But he sees it,
the curve of the road
no longer broken
beneath the unyielding weight
of cars, of time.
He knows the worth of things repaired,
of things forgotten
in their mending.

His work has no name,
no fame,
yet he stands,
admiring what is gone,
the pothole’s ghost,
a brief wound
in the endless asphalt vein.

For a moment,
he is king of this pavement,
crowned by the heat,
by the quiet approval
of all that remains unseen.