All energy dissipates
so additions shape and elapse:
like these three rooms added in ‘74
by the karate teacher who owned this property.
See wood paneling painted orange,
abandoned farm photo and Giacommetti starveling.
Lining the built-in shelves, books—
a concept that can seem absurd in the grand scheme:
while volcanoes erupt ice on Neptune
compendiums of knowledge decorate mortgaged space.
See His Furious Hands of Dragon
stud the foundation. See His Flying Kicks
of Devastating Construction hang drywall.
Based on basement evidence I deduce:
low on funds He threw Chinese stars
of leftover crown molding
down for baseboards, drank Old Style
and listened to Elvis records.
As the first heat of our universe
still ripples through radio static
the master’s legacy remains:
His School of Kung Fu’s in the plaza now,
so when I stop by the pharmacy
for pain relievers and pork rinds
I can watch through the big front windows
a line of children practicing sweet Jujitsu
while the Sensei who cobbled these rooms together
lingers somewhere in the shadows
sizing up his new occupant:
soft, he thinks, as he beats on his thigh
a loose rhythm with two screwdrivers
he’s tied together for nunchuks.