Destruction is so easy,
putting a sledge to the chisel, wedged
where some facade has already given way.
Just a light tap should do it.
Plaster explodes, old lathwork buckles,
a fine white dust fills the air.
From inside the mask and goggles,
this devastation feels distant, unreal.
Suddenly all is silence and clarity.
Where there was once a wall there is none,
where there was only blockage, there is access.
A straight shot into a new room.
But hell, the subfloor is treacherous
with rusty nails aching to inflict tetanus,
and long splinters reaching out
for the tender inside of your arms.
Destruction is easy sweat runs
down your ribs, grit lodges in the molars.
A couple of beets, a shower and
some clean clothes will put that right.
But nothing can obscure the bald truth
of what you survey the next morning.
Rebuilding will take some work.