Traffic cones litter the side of the street,
in a place where sand a shovels did meet.
At length they stand withering, their presence unheeded,
as redundant as the workers that once were needed.
They plead to the shrinking penny in my pocket,
so I pull at the lining, to find only remnants of my wallet.
A rude awakening to what is becoming obsession,
as we open our eyes to greet the ghost of recession.