Ah, little scraper–
I’d like to tell it to your nightly,
mile-high, electric tower,
tell it like it is, those things that I miss.

Unfathomable, that from a thousand miles away,
you can still tempt me.
You’ve go the power,
and more than just wattage,
more so than Rapunzel’s lofty tower,
or Briar Rose’s manged mess,
growing more rugged by the hour,
do you tower.

With your aviator’s red eye
and your blue signage,
you play the part of telephone company whore.
And you to try to measure up,
as if you could.
You stand before stately, blue mountains,
as their inferior.
You introduce them modestly
as any opening-act should.

But you know that I would,
would rush at the chance to meet you,
scale you, ambassador of my estranged city.
Like any good outstretched arm,
you signal frantically,
“I’m here, let me draw you near.”

And of course, I fear that I will never see
your electronic-circuit-board skin again,
or see your humble cap sway
ominously in the wind.


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