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.