A smart phone huddle
awakens that skyway
bridge between the bank
and liquor store. Disorientation
comes from peering
at street level. Wine
tasting is on
another night.
“Take a break
from Face
Book to face
the forgotten beauty
of a real book.”
Where did I
read that?
Skyway food service
shuts down after five—
then the dancing begins. Local hip
hop escapes her
notice but not the flailing
limbs of that young man
with a mop. An ink
and coffee and rain
stained Post-It pad still holds
its orange—a sky
she won’t meet
till winter washes away.
The mayor declares no
more skyways. Till what? We learn how
to design the perfect
compass for indoor air? Now that I know
my way around up there after two
decades, I will not give
them up. A hybrid
walk might spread in all directions
on all levels—inside and out.
The public safety
building skyway has nothing
in its display case. No hint
of what got abandoned, what could become
enclosed in glass. She could
start over. Wind her way
through 7+ miles
of second floor passageways.
Could comment on the return
of Minnesota winter. But
another tabula rasa
might serve best to shake
her free of this burden of shoulder
shrugging routine.
Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like
a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me
through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit
W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures
me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts
and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but
this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds
only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.
I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.
A skyway floor
tiled in original Lego
red and gray.
Another covered
in carpet patched
together with black
duct tape—I make my connections
above vehicular fray
seamlessly. New patterns
will arise if we can bounce
off the darkness
into true winter
without misfiring.
Thanks for reminding me how
to seduce mean
from time. I’m lost
inside the simple-eyed cricket
stare of my junk
watch. I want you
on an island next to mine.
We’d build a skyway
then blow it apart
each night in our sleep. I’d build
a dinghy, tuck oars inside
its belly, shove it your way,
get back to this. There would be
no meantime. But, no,
forever those flats, that child
unborn, naturally
washed out with the tide.
I no longer darken—I lighten
my own steps.
Seven dollars still in her pocket
as she rounds the skyway connector
without a detour. No purchase.
necessary—she’s already won
a trip to freedom.
At least an overnighter
while window sills remain banked
with snow here for another seven (or so).
Let this be my plea
for relevance: be it subway
or skyway, I can see myself
out. I know when to exit.
I exist.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 