Skytower

Up and over walls and weeds,

ever-towards the tower did we climb

wrapped about with anxiety and anger,

isolated ahead of the herd

alone, we lead,

a mob edging closer

to storm-filled skies.

A bed of rocks, debris of cans,

sky-touch achieved:

we'd been first

to the isolated pinnacle.

Lightning storm to the east,

fog to the fore

and soon, somewhere nearby,

a stereo, playing the music of my youth

framing the sound of people laughing,

people drinking

men climbing too high

but mercifully, never falling.

A green gasmask, a black bandanna,

two flashlights and two armpairs, pale of skin:

we again set out apart from the mob,

lost ourselves in computer crypts,

lamp graveyards,

uniform-chair depositories,

a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.

Varieties of folder,

both manila and hanging,

bound across your back -

you got what you came for.

So did I.