TEARING DOWN THE WALL
(Wilkinsburg, PA)
I know he won't want to do it, tear it down, not the wall,
not with his hands. But you insist, and he will against his will.
You tempt him with the old claw hammer, new Saws-all,
a tire iron charlatan tool from the car.
He takes the first swipe, near miss, then determines one blow
upon the next, maybe even likes it. You pry old boards up
from the floor, the musk of pets you could not scrub away
when the roof cried down in Spring.
He slambangs again. You pound back the jam intruders jimmied.
He tears down the wall. You put up a protest flier masquerade
of city work permit, mark lines where it should stop at bearing
beam and stud, I pretend high deco print along new trim.
Dead plaster drops in chunks to the floor. Then the lathe comes,
his saw clamoring unseen pipes against your chides for using
good scissors on brads and nails. His blackened nostrils flare
against his dust masked face. He yanks off gloves and screams,
"You tear down the goddamn wall."
Blistering, breathless, you clear the floor with shovel, broom
and pan; pocket loose change the past threw in for luck; pack
boxes with mortar, wood and mesh; haul out debris, disguised
in paper with ties trashmen might be tricked to take.
Other summers, you'll walk by the house again, the one that
inhabited you for years, and you will feel the pull of all
the muscle then, the weight of it, tearing down the wall.
Copyright © Andrena Zawinski 2001