by Karen Schubert

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The muralist brings a mock-up of muscled men
pouring molten steel down the side of the building.

Gold pools onto the sidewalk. It’s a 3-D plan.
Everybody’s quiet then someone says steel’s in the past.

The muralist thinks we’re still in the glow
but these days, stories are gray ash that settled

on laundry and one hundred thousand who left
houses and businesses wide open like the rapture

only instead of heaven they went to Houston
and Charlotte. We’re rebuilding, someone says

unironically, since the mural will be on
an empty building we still call what-it-used-to-be,

down the street from the amusement park
that burned, wooden coaster’s last spectacular ride.

Now Salvation Army’s across from the
Rescue Mission. Historic theater’s XXX.

Ok, let’s look into the future, says the muralist.
What do you see? Silence again and someone

mentions 3-D printing and the park
that’s buying up land after houses fall

and underground gas tanks are yanked up.
We are tired of our Titanic metaphors—

can’t decide if we’re patching up the hole,
steering toward warmer waters, or

arranging the deck chairs. It’s hard
to be angry with people who are gone,

and we don’t really know what happened
anyway. And what does it matter. Either

you are rolling up your sleeves, wheeling tires
from the vacant house, hammering up

plywood windows, or you are rolling a joint,
waiting for the bus that’s late.