Ancient Escalator Poem

I creep up behind you
after hiding under the table for an hour.
You tackled me like an octopus on crack
looking for a bunch of mussels to devour.

I was sort of crippled for a semester,
and you carried my books
while I limped up the ancient escalator.
You said, “My grandmother was born in a barn.”

That’s just the tires under our feet,
the way the cookie crumbles in cemetery heat.
The way to the bank is under construction
with the yellow warning signs for electrocution.

To get there you have to look for the crossing guard,
who just left his grandmother in a surgery ward.
Keep yourself at 10 and 2, like the manual;
watch out for falling rocks and crossing animals.

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