In his final hours,
as if in a fit of
urban renewal,
my father falls in
on himself,
the thin walls of
an old house
under the black
wrecking ball.
Time was, I recall,
he
carried out the
destruction,
working the
ten-story crane
to detach just so
the debris:
Not a sliver fell
in the street.
No spit or wracking
cough,
no lament: there's
nothing of him
beyond the wreckage
in the room.
Just the clock, a
patient wife
to mark the time of
death.
--Zara Raab
