Building Down


“We’re building down,” my neighbor said.

           Gutting the basement
                                               in surgical masks
they pry the plywood off—
                     skreeling groans
                                               as nails
                               lose their grip—
bash the concrete back to rubble,
rend the fibrous trash,
and at last lay bare
                         the stilts,
          too spindly
to keep on holding
                                  the storied hulk . . .

Under hardwood:
        splinters, expired
             permits,
        crawl space
                             black
             widow city.

                                                               Flung out,
a rusted rollerskate.

        Sandal-style like mine, at eight—

the magic
                  of ball bearings—

a footprint,
              telescoping,
                                  with my own
skate key!

                             It’s
not the where
                        (up and down the block)


but the going–
        rush
                of motion and rust,
chattering over the cracks.