A poem about how we remember.
Dad worked demolition for forty-eight
years and his brain never quit, it took
Philadelphia apart brick by brick, first
the buildings—City Hall, Veterans’ Field,
with its blue and red seats: green Astroturf.
Then it moved on to bridges—the Ben
Franklin, Walt Whitman, lastly Commodore
Barry, which he only ever drove over
once, when the Ben Franklin was closed.
Finally it stripped the streets from the nooks
of his brain, Walnut and Market were gone
forever. One time, we found him pacing
out front of the house and he could not
remember our faces.