Graying boards resist the weeds,
childhood bushes grown to trees;
air pours anvil-cold from reeling blue,
the mask upon abyss.
Leather-covered knuckles clamp
loose green brass, 
its screws about to strip the rotten wood.

Grit and groan, the old child sits ---
the floor will do, there's nothing left;

Lines arrive from photographs in frame,
words in broken static make the meter, 
rhythm must be stolen from a frightened heart,
a crippled step.

The poem becomes
neatly torn pieces
burned in the fireplace.

Drag a row of brand-new 
plastic garbage cans, 
lug bags of pants, and dresses,
scoop canceled checks, and shoes; 
electric bills from nineteen sixty-five.
Rotten drapery cords.

Shoveled, carried, trucked away
metal cars with rubber tires,
stuffed brown bears with button eyes.

The little circle of carpet
on which
exactly in the center
he sits
will have to go.