“You ever seen a view like this one?”
The cold December air holds up snowflakes
and then lets them fall gently upon the dome
with its lantern lit for ships far from home.
The newspapers printing in the basement
cause subtle vibrations in the iron railing
that my fingers feel as they squeeze
and below me is three hundred feet of brick.
“You know, they wouldn’t let me get a pension
…after all I had done?
I detected and spied and plied my trade
from Wales to the dark Confederacy
and all I have to show for it is
a book full of Pinkerton’s lies.
So here in the frigid sky
I hold fast to my courage
one last time.”
A little bit of adrenaline gives me
the strength to climb over the rail
and in a brief moment of mirth
I imagine opening my jacket
so as to flap black wings like a bat,
drop to the earth and swoop over the heads of ladies
wrapped in thick furs, clinging to their men in wool coats.
But I know that I will only land with a thud
on the macadamized street
leading to the Brooklyn Bridge.
At least the reporters wont have far to go to find a story.