Somewhere in the middle of the night scaffolding showed up.
WIthout the clinking and clanking you expect
when the metal framework is put together.
The floor changes. It is stripped of its parquet
to raw concrete, an invitation to recreate
even the foundations.
You lean against the wall, wondering
how all this happened while you slept, staring at it all,
not with a sense of mourning that the familiar is no longer,
But with a sense, wholly inappropriate,
About this poem.
The picture was taken at Mass MoCA. I originally titled the image “Wreckage”. I must have been in a different place in life, since that is what I saw. I look at it today, and see possibilities, and the joy of recreation. That says something about my life right now, and over the past few years.
Because sometimes, wreckage IS possibility. We just don’t recognize it at first.