Pressed against a glass-paneled view
Of a city of skyscrapers
And just beyond that a lake big enough
To stretch beyond my imagination
Outside steel tops of buildings meet my gaze
Seated from the floor, this top floor,
And I feel the sway of the winds
That make this city famous.
My grandfather, mid-west born,
Had been to this city before. Had
Wreaked havoc down on those streets—
Filling the fountain with soap suds
And pulling trolley’s off their tracks.
I think, when I look down 45 stories,
Of how little we can know of the ground
From this height. In the dark,
The big city lights burn like small lighters
Meekly requesting an encore.