All of Westland Avenue is a debris field
like that of the Titanic, belongings
scattered, exploding out of doorways.
Cradling my afternoon brew in its waffled
sleeve, I dodge boxes crammed with housewares
new and scavenged, lids and handles,
spindly halogen floor
fans, splintery chunks of
So many mattresses.
You cannot know how many mattresses
propped up against fences
and phone poles,
over each bean sídhe,
keening and fretting
as they paw through the boxes trying
to locate Tylenol.
We, the settled, tend
to forget this
day except when
it slows our pace, halts
our progress, leaves
us stranded somewhere
A and B, somewhere
like Westland Avenue.