They tore it down.
Didn’t take long, you said.
Not as long as it took to build it, anyhow.
You can see how it was broken (if you look real close). Left
gutted. Eviscerated. Bricks and bones of rooms leaning
into strewn ghosts forwarding no address.
Dust never settles, you said
I’ve never seen anything so still.
You hold my hand and say:
Sam the old grey tabby sun-stretched out on a sleepy summer curb licking his paw
eyes half closed to the smell of cut grass.
Or you, singing loud to Elton John don’t let the sun go down on me lying on the brown shag rug because nobody in the world was watching.
Or you, warm water deep in wondering if your toes would ever touch the other end
of the claw foot bathtub?
The hole it left
Inside. How even light refused to enter, or how
you in your pyjamas would listen from the vent in your room, remember? And you
never speaking of the din
ever speaking of the trembling thunder from the 10:20 train
rattling curtainless windows and Five Star Rye
buried deep in February snow banks?
How the ground slammed against us
It shifted us hard, didn’t it?
Dismembered us, remember how
your hand left mine?
I never heard anything go so silently
like dust that never settles
as it all fell down.