High above the bustling city the skyline
only a vision of smoky haze, lost
in the humidity. Billowing stacks
of textile factories dot away like telephone
poles disappearing in the direction
of the waterfront. Sounds clatter above
the steamy abyss, cleats on the iron frame
of another bankers dream keep me in the clouds.

How can I hear your singing in this drudgery?

Forging another rivet, salt stings my eyes
as I bring the hammer down;
a tip toe samba, twenty two stories high.

A little boy fills these hours for you
as you keep up our home spending
the day forging like myself.
My heart listens for your song,

while watching, you sleep this
morning I heard it. Softly I kissed
you and crept out into the darkness
of the early morn.

It played loud, big band
in the height of swing.
Every step on the sidewalk gilded
with dance movements.

To be with you, the hour draws near.
Resting my hammer, the elevator will take
me to the city streets. The five fifteen
will drop me two blocks away.

These old work boots
will move past tenement row.
Up the stoop, the stairs will have no feeling.
My eyes alive with anticipation, heart beating
faster, to feel your arms around me.
Finally on the tip of my lips,
I will taste your song.