the hole

The hole, covered over by large steel plates after quitting time, was slick under my bike tires in the rain. In the morning, every morning, the workmen would slide the plates back using a bulldozer, revealing the city’s ancient pipe works, raw in the day’s early sun. The workmen’s little fenced-off island snarled the already complicated traffic in the intersection, and I would ride through on a speedy hope and prayer.
Now, the hole is covered up for good, the work is finished, and the street seems no different.

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