The roof deck held the jet-packs, and the teams
Of passing strangers ran the checklist, strapped
And counted down from ten. Each stairwell had
Da Vinci helicopters, rigged from cloth
And wood to spiral down like maple seeds.
Some broke the glass to pull out sets of wings,
Hides and feathers prepped to glide. All came down,
A thousand arcs that slowed to land upon
A grid-deck mezzanine above the street.
At any moment they might disembark—
Each day the stanchions holding them secure
Let fall a fading phrase, or joke, to wrench
Me into smiles, ready again to hear
His part among the chorus of escapes.
Copyright © Josh Jacobs 2012