She said on the news that

He did everything right.

Under smoke, he sat and

Watched a beam fall, that

Had been a foundation—

Collapsed.

He had watched

The crane as levers moved and

Slapped through paths together. Like

Legs finding their way through a door

Knee catching on an unusual

Knick that he swears wasn’t there

Before. But he looks comfortable

An animal lying in the sun, bathing.

A greasy hand touches his cap, rings on his wrist

From years of grocery bags

Like cigarettes;

Lost from fingers.

And he nods farewell to the dispersing smoke and

Crowd, the cameras—it had settled, ruffled

By his boot fluffed and spread.

The microphone of the

Telecaster got closer, more comfortable,

As if being held by the cup of her smile.

The man stumbles through

Wreckage, toe catching on a board

Or a piece of rotted floor, and even though

I see the final collapse of boot on

Rubble, he hovers over

The wreckage, over the reporter and

Her (mic/smile) as if he had done this

So many times it didn’t hurt not to

Think, wrecked so many beginnings

That his knees gave way and collapsed

Into lost doorways, empty rooms.

Closed eyes studying a piece of wood,

Sharpened at the break.