Sound of Taking Something Apart

The metal doesn't scream.

I was wrong about that.

It bends first, then it snaps,

and the sound is less scream than collapse,

like something inside it breaking,

like it knew this was coming

and held on as long as it could

before it gave.

The sun catches the edge

where it curls back from the frame,

sharp enough to cut,

and I can see the rust underneath,

the years of weather,

the thing that was always failing,

just taking its time about it.

The workers don't look gentle.

They don't have to.

The building is already dead.

They're just speeding up the funeral.

I watch from my car at the red light,

watch the bucket come down,

watch the metal fold like it's paper,

like it never meant to last,

like standing upright was the real work,

and now that work is done,

it can finally stop pretending.

The light turns green.

I don't move.

I'm trying to see what the building saw

in those last seconds before the bucket took it,

if there was anything like relief

in finally coming down,

or if it was just dark,

just noise,

just the end of holding on.