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Building Boom, 1946

Tom Roby

Our club sneaks out on warm school nights,
creeps through the spring weeds
of the corner haunted house, meets
to break a window or two, rip off
peeling wallpaper, and scrawl our names
on bare walls—The Shadow,
The Heap, Captain Midnight.
After the war, building begins again.
Spooks flee when a steel ball swings,
sweeps away our haunt like a cobweb.

The construction site is even better,
like living inside a huge erector set.
Tab A slides into slot B,
sashes snug window frames,
pipes thrust through floorboards.
After school we watch the sandman
swing his shovel like a pendulum
that scoops mortar from his mixer
to the bricklayers’ trays.
Trowels scrape and dish,
flip a lip on each edge,
set one brick on the other,
and tap them with the handle
for alignment and good luck.

At quitting time we saunter round the block,
come right back for building tag,
hide-and-seek in each new room,
and whatever we can make with fresh sand,
signing our names—Tonto, Speedy, Boy Wonder.

We learn the ribs of this house, its guts.
We become its brains, its spirit.
On a dare, Boo Nokes lays a line of bricks,
then tells some nosey cop in a deep voice
from behind the wall, “It’s okay Officer,
I’m showing the kids how it’s done.”
No vandals, we fix things up for the workmen,
smirk at their puzzled looks,
no broken glass around our house.
We meet in every room from basement to attic,
carving our names on the top beams—Blackhawks,
The Daily Planet, Justice League of America.

Then, they latch the last window,
lock the back door. Dispossessed,
we spook around corners with the fall leaves,
come back to peer at the fireplace
where we had warmed ourselves like craftsmen,
remembering the sandman’s swinging arms.



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