So 'twas on a Monday morning that the gas-man came to call

Because I hardly ever pay attention to it as a holiday, I always forget that Patriots' Day is so geographically bizarre, by which I mean that since it is tied to the Battles of Lexington and Concord and the Battle of Menotomy it would make much more sense if like Evacuation Day it were functionally a Boston-area holiday or even celebrated only within Massachusetts and Maine and instead for some reason which may just be nationalism states as far-flung from the original thirteen colonies as South Dakota and Florida have since gotten in on the act. Around this time of year in the late eighteenth century, the colonial observance would have been Fast Day, which as a ritual of atonement must explain the stapled packet of pages popped through our mail slot this afternoon to notify us that for the next ten to twenty-four weeks we can expect construction every day on our street starting indefinitely soon. At least now I know what the serpentine pile of plastic pipe at the top of the street has been doing, taking up three parking spots. I am neither morally nor scientifically against the installation of a new gas main, especially since the cast-iron pipe being replaced is delicately described in the city materials as "vintage." I just want to sleep ever again in my life.