A poem

I wrote this one a while back when they were starting the construction to move the railroad tracks to accommodate the new twins stadium. I don't think I like the title, and I'm not really sure where I want to go with it. Any good ideas?

The Maintenance of Progress

Between the tracks, eternal parallel lines
(and all lines, we know, are circles):

To the right, a hobo’s blanket soaking in a puddle—
plaid flannel smeared with grime,
besmirched with mud and corruption,
debased,
limp and defeated under a sky of cold steel.

To the left a sapling, two seasons old—
a thin stem whipped with trans-American winds
dusted with coal particulates,
dogged,
baked under the hardening sun,

and marked with an orange nylon flag,
while orange paint poured out like blood upon the ground
cuts cross-ways in a jagged perpendicular
between clumps of splintered wood.