Christmas, 2004
The stairs are single file, cold stone
I wait in the bell room whilst
Fat American tourists
Pass the other way.
You never told me you had a
fear of heights. Slipped into
conversation before I started
up the stairs.
And left you behind.
An elderly German follows me up
Tells me that one hundred
Years ago, this place
Was the tallest on Earth.
“We would have felt like Gods.”
He points out stonemason signatures,
“Original work,” tells me,
During the war, British aircraft
Refused to release bomber bay doors.
“Why?” I ask.
“Too beautiful,” he says, in cracked
stumbled English and looks
out across the city. I look down,
you are just part of an eyebrow
in a Lichtenstein marketplace.
Later, while you sleep, I roam
Walking corridors
Watching businessmen at the bar
I wonder if they ever walked up
Those stairs
I wonder if they ever felt like Gods.
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