At six a.m., the truck backed up outside
The window and unloaded a claw. The claw,
By six-thirty, had grunted its way across
The street and positioned itself behind
The grey two-story wooden building slated
To be torn down. Within another half an hour,
At least half-a-dozen white-haired men
Were lined up on the sidewalk opposite,
Watching steadily and commenting
As the claw ripped into the old building.
A young girl and her father came out
Into their front yard to watch as well, the girl
Crunching a cucumber she’d just pulled
From the garden. Agency is agency, no doubt
About it. The claw with the human inside it
Backed up and swung its rear end, seeking
Purchase, then opened its maw and reached
Into the guts of the building, much as a beast
Would wriggle its haunches, lean forward,
And tear into an oversized carcass. The front
Was the last of the ruin to lean and crumble.
Startled bats escaped the collapsing attic.
By eight there was nothing left but rubble.
Homeless mice scampered over the ground.
“That was more exciting than I expected,”
Said the girl. An older man joining the others
Just before they scattered, teased them.
“Know how many men it takes to tear down
A building in this town? One to tear it down
And ten to stand around watching!” Once
Everyone else had gone and the claw stood
Silent and emptied of agency beside the pile
Of broken lumber, the girl’s father returned
To contemplate the beast. Part crane and part
Skyhook, it sat waiting for a Paley or a Dennett
To make it into an argument for the origin
Of design, purpose, agency. A mystery.
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