Afterward, we worm into the basement
of a Mr. Ted Kessler. He watches us
pick apart relic from rubble, relent-
less relievers, subduing a hoarseness
of tone. Here is his moldy rocking chair.
Did he sit here once? To watch the sea
romance the sand? We ask now: Does he care
to save it? His face wrinkles defeatedly.
His father was a cobbler. In each box
are the contents of his shoe-repair shop:
curled, aging leather and wooden blocks,
water-logged. We empty the space from top
to bottom. Now Jersey is full of holes.
Pausing to remember, we dig through soles.