Building 20

Building 20

The original is gone,

leveled, erased so

I have designed a new one,

identical down

to the last nail through the last

asbestos shingle,

home away from home for odd

balls of all stripes, a

glorified shed with a roof

that leaks into pots

and buckets arrayed on desk

tops, syncopation

that sets our toes to tapping,

sends us into the

dim halls, lost, fingers popping,

rubbing shoulders with

pie bakers and bird watchers,

TIG welders and duck

hunters, blocked writers and moon

shiners, crackpots each

and every one, infecting

one another with

replicating viruses,

tearing down the walls,

blowing out the floors above

our heads to make room

for contraptions sprouting looped

octopus arms that

funnel phosphorescent soup

down to the café

where we meet cute, you and I,

the Noam and Carol

Chomsky of my new cut rate
version of Building
20, shrine of chance meetings.