A machine-age mast for mooring dirigibles
Steel drypoint into deepening blue
My childhood view.

Now behind a frieze of hub caps and mud guards
Winged elements stuck in concrete traffic jams
I spend my days. Lipsticked, eyes emphasised
I devise plans, execute targets, create, communicate.
Thirty storeys collapse like cards when I hit
Subway Level.

The Skateboard Man, his schedule tighter than a train's,
Pushes his torso, monkeylike,
Cruising the rush-hour platform, arm jabbing out,
Thigh-high to the crowd.

The Lint Lady picks, picks… invisible specks.
Naked beneath that torn and matted fur
...