My first attempt at poetry

They blocked the road and put up a board, another flyover is coming up, it roared.

As I drove past, I spotted a man, lifting several bricks in a small pan.

He slogged away under the Sun, his wife in tow and children, more than one.

I spotted a stove and a bag, perhaps that was all they could tag.

They had moved in, this was now their world, under the flyover, their lives now swirled.

As I sped past and left them behind, a question slowly formed in my mind.

When we will use what they made, shall we know it was them who paid?

Eventually it was ready and in flew a guest, the press was there, so he looked his best.

He laid a foundation stone that read the name of someone long long dead.

As I drove past, I looked around, the man and his family were nowhere to be found!

Their world had now moved, who knows, perhaps, another flyover had been approved!