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.IMG_8446


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.