“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.