LAST SONG FOR THE MEND-IT SHOP
1.
Today some buildings were blown up,
rounded shoulders, the shoulders
of women no one has touched for a long time.
Men and women watched from their offices
then went back to filing papers.
A drinking fountain hummed.
I translate this from the deep love
I feel for old buildings.
I translate this from my scream.
2.
The rosebushes held on so tightly
we could not get them out.
Under the sign that promised
to stitch things together,
the thorny weathered MEND-IT
fading fast now
fading hard,
Jim heaved his shovel.
We were loosening dirt
around the heavy central roots,
trespassing, trying to save
at least the roses
before bulldozers came,
before the land was shaved
and the Mexican men and women
who tend with such a gracious bending
disappeared. They were already gone
and their roses would not let go.
We bit hard on the sweetness,
snipping, in all our names,
the last lavish orange heads,
our teeth pressed tightly together.
3.
This looks like a good place
to build something ugly.
Let’s do it. A snack
shop. Let’s erase
the board. Who can build
faster? You could fit
a hundred cars here.
It’s only a house
some guy lived in
ninety years. And it’s so
convenient to downtown.
That old theater nobody goes to
anymore, who cares if it’s
the last theater like that
in the United States?
Knock it out so we can build
a bank that goes bankrupt
in two years. Don’t hang
on.
4.
Some days I can’t lift
the glint of worry.
We go around together.
Soon we will wear
each other’s names.
in the river of lost shoes.
I fall into photographs.
Someone lives inside
those windows.
Before they demolish
the Honolulu bakery,
women in hair nets
and white dresses
lock arms on the counter.
Someone buys
their last world-famous
golden lemon cake.
Take a card, any card.
The magic dissolving recipe
for buildings with frills?
We will not know what
it tasted like.
