We Could Scrape The Sky

After Lunch atop a Skyscraper, 1932

Above the world,

eleven workers dine:

eating altitude on rye.

They sit as if riveted,

smoke cigarettes,

swallow insulated sustenance

from tin thermoses,

and wait.

The lunch whistle

beckons them back to peril;

every man makes a wish

for boots with magnet soles.

When they return to earth,

their caps and overalls exhale

the gusted scent

of this progressive city’s zeal.

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