Cast-off brick, violence is upon you
atop the side yard's sacrificial slab,
where boy with hammer kneels on unkempt grass
striking your aged strength to powder.

Priestly device, silver and leather, 
a tool of construction, his of destruction
lively, half-pound of peen and claw
funneling fracture to fragment to persimmon dust bested.
It dives, it drives: every crumble must surrender,
the reversion to constituents, a metal stoning of stone.

The firehouse echoes demise from across the street,
where they are washing again—
                   those engines are always clean.
Murmur swift swallows, penned pups whisper,
sedans glimmer by unconcerned.
The old oleander totters heavy overhead, leaves rapt,
sole audience to ruin in the make.

Left hand wielding, right hand braces the lanky tripod
against the imperative chore.
Because he conceives, he hammers, the hero,
a mighty John Henry, though he's not yet heard the name.

Your pile of dust grows greater still, till
instrument fallen, he leans up resting,
blue jeans damp at the knees.
Head bobs in inspection and, satisfied, exhales
a silent smiled triumph, this Calvin sans Hobbes,
savage priest of the bricks.

© Copyright 2004-2010, Cory Bickmore. All Rights Reserved. Powered by CreativeTap	This site will change your life.	Email Bickmo