Walking back I pass

a block-long dune

of rubble and the man whose job

it is to shovel it. An iron rectangle

he’s nestled in debris makes

a little door he’s slinging

shovelfuls of crumbled

plaster through, no reason.

Three old women from a facing

building stamped for demolition

watch. The man’s toss makes it,

misses, makes it. Across

one woman’s quilted vest

fans an orange blossom pattern. A ten-foot

stack of styrofoam is tied nearby.

Everyone is laughing.