By DAVE MOORE
I picked up a brick from the edge of the demolition,
carried it home and set it on my porch,
one small piece of that hated Smith Foundry.
Forty years of smelling its burnt iron reek,
closing windows in summer, eyes smarting,
hearing my sensitive partner coughing::::
Talked to pollution agency ginks,
went to meetings, marched in protest,
the whole neighborhood wheezing with asthma.
Finally resigned to accepting the horrible stench,
either live with the bitter fumes or move.
And then:::: and then::::
after decades of violations,
initialed regulators finally heard us.
Smith Foundry shut down.
With barely any notice::::
heavy scoops began to batter the walls,
pouring water on noise and concrete as it crumpled.
Now its tall stack lies smokelessly sideways::::
Spring air carries the last remnants of dust.
So I picked up the brick and brought it home,
As if I had torn it out with my own hands.
The air, of course the air is still dirty
from combustion engines whizzing past the site,
but the black dust in my house is lessened::::
We can garden without fleeing from the stink::::
Despite the fascists cancelling clean air regulations,
I have some relief, some hope after all this time.
I’ll keep that brick as a reminder
that sometimes things turn out right.
