Easter Sunday and a bunch of guys
are swinging sledgehammers
at a pile of old furniture outside
the apartment building that towers over
The place is mostly student housing,
and the furniture is all old desks, futons,
particle board shelves.
The men wear dust masks pushed up
onto their foreheads. They laugh and yell
at one another in Spanish, taking turns
running toward the pile and swinging
with all their might, cheering the destruction.
Splinters and screws and chunks of
compressed sawdust fly everywhere.
The crashing reverberates along
the tree-lined streets, bounces off the walls
of the condos, of the few remaining Victorians
that huddle in this hollow beside the highway.
They toss the remains into a tall green dumpster.
He has died, He has risen. New students will arrive
in vans filled with new furniture.
He will come again.