I originally published this original poem under the title “The Roof,” but decided it was not about a rooftop experience; rather, it is about allowing yourself to rise above the craziness for a few moments and see what’s really going on. I welcome any feedback, especially if it sparks a dialog about the current atmosphere in our beloved country.
Up here
on the roof,
I am tall,
taller than all,
at the apex:
not of height,
nor of stature;
just here
at the edge
where anything
is possible:
creativity,
destruction,
enlightenment,
apostasy;
whatever I choose
begins up here
at the edge
of heaven and hell
where God waits,
and angels watch;
where birds soar
without awareness
of my struggle,
or my questions,
or my potential,
good or bad;
below, a community
ekes out its
existence,
parading
up and down
the streets
and avenues,
with no inkling
of what comes
next;
life in
pieces, its
very blood spilled
on the macadam
of tomorrow
by the handguns
of a thousand
angry, disenfranchised men,
rudderless,
willing to take
everyone
with them
into the
crevasse where
not even light
can escape.
©2017 Steven Barto
