Letter to the Editor: Meet the ‘Pothole King’

In Quincy town, there dwelt a man grim,
Who thought his job was to fill every pothole’s brim.

With “No” votes for the public good on this day.
His heart was as dark as the asphalt’s gray.

He grumbled and groaned each attempt to do more.
Hating the world with an unyielding roar.

The sun was too hot, the rain was too wet,
Every task he despised, a never-ending fret.

He cursed at the traffic, the noise, and the dust,
Wishing for solitude, a moment of trust.

But even in silence, his mind would still churn,
Fueled by a hatred he couldn’t discern.

And oh, how he loathed the thought of a book,
In libraries’ quiet, he’d never look.

The sight of a page made his blood start to boil,
A library’s peace he attempts to spoil.

B.J. Kroeger
Host, Quincy Cannon podcast
Quincy, Illinois