After the wrecking ball
I look at myself looking back thirty years
when I tore down most of a century-old home
and rebuilt it. Took money. Took time,
something that happens so that everything won’t happen at once.
Recently my ex sold that house
and gave to my son whom I'm visiting in Chi,
a carton of photos asleep in a second floor corner closet in that home,
a space which today is air over a cleared lot.
Once I believed a building would tolerate all the junk
we dragged in and stuffed away; that its creaks and moans
were what it spoke back to the urban night while we slept
and believed ourselves sheltered. Now I believe I'll have another drink;
that life happened; that it took time.