Kevin Finucan
Skyscraper-
You told me my tower was the death of your flowers,
while you stood within its walls, that held you safe against rage of the
weather.
And every drop of water sliding freely down every glass pane
was a subtle tribute to the sweat along my forehead.
You told me my eyes were mocking your American dream
while you quietly asked me to offer you peace and a paycheck.
You sang of giving your spirit for love
while you ate out of hand that cradled you from above.
You traced your finger along the curve of my back
and applied pressure to the twist you found there, calling it art,
while the lines you followed formed the map
that carried you through the storm.
You called my skyscraper the end of beauty,
how it stood in proud defiance of the sky.
You called my hands, pressed in reverence against its walls, a disease,
while it is only against your cruelest lies that they will always crease.
