POETRY

Dead Ears

Charon’s Passengers

Photo by Karsten Würth on Unsplash

It’s a walkup a long semi-vertical say, forty-five degree walk up to the roof in this tall, elevator-free unfriendly building

But I will shout from the roof tops and this is the roofest top the toppest roof for miles around for me to roof-shout from

Yes, beggars and choosers come to mind

But I will bullhorn this from the roofest top the toppest roof because they have to know

The doorman’s name is Charon but his name notwithstanding he does not care much for poetry He does not care much for anything

Charon cares only about pipes and central heating and Styx and Acheron and whether his boat is river-worthy tonight for his next load of unwilling passengers

Still, he insists I hand him the poem to read the one I need to shout for his approval

— and why from this particular roof he wants to know

I hand him the poem which he scans and I don’t think he reads a single word I don’t think he can read

— because this is the roofest top the toppest roof for miles around I tell him

Fair enough, he says and hands me back my poem

— you’d better start climbing then if you want to reach the roof before nightfall

No elevator, then, I confirm No, no elevator, he confirms

What’s with the bullhorn he shouts after me as I head for the stairs I put it to my mouth and bullhorn him back

— To be heard

Fair enough he says drilling his ear with one long Charon finger in subtle protest at the generous decibels frowns, too, but he’ll let it go this time sort of thing

I start to climb happily at first less happy by the sixth landing even less so by the twelfth this building did not look that tall from the outside

By the twenty-fourth landing I have to sit down for a rest to catch my breath to still my heart

Resting I re-read my already a million times re-read poem and find another thing to tweak another semicolon to move to the line above

At the fortieth landing I rest again and re-read again and return that semicolon to whence it came

It still does not sing I think and perhaps I’m rushing it perhaps I should turn back

Not after forty flights I self-suggest and I self-agree let’s press on: roof or bust

This building is growing

By the eightieth landing I’m thinking this is not real Eighty floors and no elevator And not a single tenant from what I can make out

Am I dreaming this?

No dream beats my heart No dream heaves my lungs No dream trickles my sweat Just a too-tall elevator-free non-dream

Wouldn’t you know it an even hundred top landing roof access Let’s hope the door isn’t locked

Relieved, I step out on the roof and now, by the not very secure ledge, I hover above the city

I put the bullhorn to my mouth and hold the poem up to read

And it begins:

It’s a walkup a long semi-vertical say, forty-five degree walk up to the roof in this tall, elevator-free unfriendly building

And it sure rings a bell several bells in fact but I keep bullhorning it hoping the message will come through loud and clear

But the city below does not look right Even at dusk no street lights no bright windows only shadow and rising shadow and no people or if there are people they’re hiding

I can see Charon down there checking his boat and then watering it paddling or drifting across the black water

Seems like the boat knows What to do He looks up at me and points away from the city I’m bullhorning telling me to go to the opposite roof edge to look in the direction of the living

Good point

But even though there are street lights and even though there are bright windows and even though there are people down there they care about poetry as much as the dark and empty city that Charon is visiting again with new passengers

Running back to the other side again I can see him in his boat brimful rimful of silent souls a little uneasy about the short voyage

Perhaps that is my audience after all so I hoist my bullhorn and sing to the dead

© Wolfstuff

[embed]Wolfstuff So, who am I? Really really. I could tell you that I was born in northern Sweden during a snow storm, and subsequently…wolfstuff.com