Luke Johnson
San Juan, Puerto Rico
There is a crane and there is a wrecking ball.
There is a man hugging the rusted chain
and twirling, swinging apex to apex all
a’giggle, his friend in the driver seat
with those ludicrous levers and knobs,
laughing, too, at this game they’ve made
where the sky cuts with a whistle and steel
becomes light. Humid sky makes your lungs sweat
as you watch them without hardhats
or orange reflective vests or even
a foreman to storm in and tell them
to get back to work, no, not here,
a stone plaza hidden in the gridwork
of pastel alleyways, where there’s a room
of pinned butterflies, black wing-spots
shimmering a sea in oranges like a wall
of eyes, all in boxes, boxes kept dusted
and clear, there to show how beautiful
these wings could be alive.