My Father Does Not Appear When Googled

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Yet throughout the countryside of my youth,
in the Midwest, there are bridges he built
that are still in place, along creeks and rivers.

And there are houses, too, that he constructed,
in his patience, board by board, nail by nail,
that are still standing, still providing shelter.

In that same country town there are sidewalks
made of concrete, that he poured, in front
of the bank, the post office, the Carnegie library.

Those things are far away now, those faces
vanished – all those who walked those streets
in their daily rounds, who crossed those bridges.

In my imagination, it is as though a great wind
has swept through those rooms and buildings,
emptying them, taking the inhabitants away.

In time, the houses too will be carried off,
and the school and the hospital, all diminished
and scattered, until only the bridges remain.

Then even the largest and most enduring
of my father’s works will disappear, lifted
on invisible currents, like elements in a dream.

Yet there are nights when the wind stiffens,
and the dream returns. The streets of the town
come alive once more. Within those shadows

my father strides along an unfinished bridge,
hammer in hand, urging the workers on,
laboring to provide a passage for others.