The Height

Poetry Reading and yap session. ft. Dante

The oblivious specks enter an unwitting race,

I watch from above, as the shuffle and quake-

past the glittering metal, I extend

to touch and unreachable cloud,

to feel a slip of wind press itself to my limbs,

and graze upon my silver bracelet and polished nails.

The men who ate bologna and cheese on barren beams,

only dreamed of such height.

There’s a privilege to this, and I paid the price at the glass door,

for fifteen dollars we can reach the fiftieth floor,

the observation deck for just ten more,

the date, the man, the walking checkbook with a smile that says,

I’ve been here before,

hands over the card, the sacrifice, the fruits as well,

and the specks below, like Tantalus in desperation,

grasp and go nowhere.

I can count each ghost, whizzing by with hard hats on soft skulls,

they wave and clap and share in fortune they could never possess,

at the deck now,

I’ve crossed the thinnest line between mortal and god,

I walk across the twinkling glass floor,

the ghosts have faces of worry and the specks have gone hungry,

and the privileged just below me, on the fiftieth floor,

are looking up my golden skirt.