Back Stairwell

    I've chosen to take the stairs.

    It's harder， but quicker

    than waiting for the elevator

    which seems eternally stuck on R-Roof.

    And I'm late， the last of the parents

    who don't send a stand-in.

    I'm running， propelled by a kind of demon

    求and embarrassed by my lateness-

    up the back stairs of the synagogue，

    when a window appears in the shaft，

    on the wall of the stairwell；

    a real window， like a painting on a wall

    through which you can see the sky.

    The shattered blue leans in， breaks

    through the wall； it leaves

    an opening， a sudden shudder， a frisson

    like a rustle of eternity

    shattered in the vista of receding

    clouds， antennae， water towers＃

    and I think we are not far from ecstasy

    even in the interior.

    I can't get my son to hold the banister

    as we descend the stairs；

    a look of sheer defiance clouds his face，

    the same boy who， the other night

    I watched shuffle and backpedal and nearly fall，

    down the escalator， over

    the rapids of the raw-toothed

    edges of the blades；

    his hands， his attention， occupied

    by a rabbit samurai Ninja turtle

    and Krang， the bodiless brain.

    I gauged the dive I would need

    to catch him if he fell：

    a flat out floating horizontal grab

    I couldn't even have managed in my youth.