Rust Belt
by Jeannine M. Pitas

I go in search of what's left of you -
marble angels staring down
from the altar of St. Stanislaus Church
train music in the late afternoon
the portrait of Chopin on the door
of an abandoned banquet hall
the gold dome of the bank, still shining
like half of a sun.

I go in search of what's left of you -
windows without shudders
doors without frames
stairs with nowhere
to climb to -

in my hands I collect you, reassemble,
rebuild you,

a child's tiny city
made only of blocks and dreams.

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