I envisioned two rows running
alongside my driveway, though
Earnest, who came to install them,

anchored them three abreast,
settling the new red bricks into
a long, sandy bed, the smooth

border a first step in the front yard
resculpture, the beginning of a taking
apart and a putting back together.

Unlike the old bricks I liberated
later that day from a downtown
demolition site, the once-smooth

rectangles chunky with concrete,
heavy with history, laden with
memory, not meant for reuse,

bound instead for landfill.
Why I felt I needed to bring
them home I’m not sure.

Perhaps as proof, a testament
of something substantial, a tribute
to so many of us who made that

once-solid structure thrum with life,
like the huge underground presses
the neighbors could feel rumbling

through every night, unfurling
enormous rolls of blank newsprint
that came alive with words,

stories, photos, ads, illustrations,
so much humanity reflected
on some of the world’s thinnest

paper. Which turned out to be
far more perishable than we
thought, so easily thrown away.