I’ve always been fond of demolition.
Ripping out carpet
Pulling nails
Poking around inside horsehair plaster walls
Removing and dissecting
The shredded newspaper pages
Of a long-abandoned mouse nest;
Discovering someone’s secret drinking spot
Revealed by ancient whiskey bottles
Tucked away in my attic rafters
Just out of sight.
Lately I’ve been examining the drop ceilings
In my kitchen
Curious what’s above them
Hoping for tin-tiles
When I’ll probably uncover
Crumbling plaster.
My daughter worries over my
Desire for exploratory destruction.
I laugh it off
But I know
Somewhere
What I’m hunting for
Isn’t more historical curiosities
It’s not empty whiskey bottles
Or beadboard
Or the original hardwood floor;
It’s the distraction
From something more internal
A wound I keep changing the bandage on
That hurts too much to touch.
These layers are much harder
To peel back
Than a drop-ceiling
Or carpeting and sticky sub-floor
And when removed
I don’t know if what I’ll find
Is worth the work
If it can be restored
Or if it’s too far gone.
But
As with all things
My curiosity will win over
In the end.
Good or bad
Or terrifying
I’ll keep peeling these layers back.
