In a mess of mortar and brick
trowel and point, bucket and brush,
we lay down a level
until it is all square as it can be.

After hours of hose,
thick wires scouring red clay,
we agree: this is clean.

Dry hands crack. The cracks bleed.
Skin becomes pink and tender,
and  discrete tears puddle
just to prove the point
was not perfect.

Everyone smiles, everyone rejoices,
in this new place, that was shattered
and broken and edgeless.

I would marvel too, but I know
the impropriety of the foundation.

I smile too and wait for it to crumble.