The hammers bang;
the ceiling scraped from peeling;
now slides and mushes of plaster spackling
are heard.

And the saws cut the wood bar
to electric re-purposing it from coffee shop
into wine bar.

Now more mallet smashing
behind plastic sheeting,
obscuring all but dark shapes of contractors.

How can I write a poem in all this noise?

Well, in Brooklyn I used to hear and feel trucks
from the surrounding factories thud
on potholes the size of folding tables.
And that one time they tried to fix some
with jackhammers and partially filling them,
they always returned to the sinkholes
of blasting bams of harsh vibration.

Such is the cacophony of industry,
the reminder that all dies
and cracks and slams
in a last moment
along the way.