I have not seen the Eiffel Tower,
But I have been the Eiffel Tower
in a poem. A steel spire claming
blue. A protrusion from a tilting
latte cup towards the lips of the
truly French, sacramental compass
if you will. It all started with a heap
of scrap metal and a dream. And
of course there were the milli-bits
That tightened this and held it up.
But once you reach the clouds you
tend to forget those little things.
I didn’t solder any joints for eyes.
I stand in fear of wind, for only I
know how frail and barely made
this structure really is. Some say
it’s not as tall as they imagined it.
That doesn’t stop the hunger of their
lense. I have been a pointy hat on
more smiles than there are wine
corks in garbage cans. So why try
at all? Why erect myself to such
extremes? There was a joy in it,
and a need. Perhaps it came from
Jack, or something about heaven.