Beam Rider

High above gray Manhattan’s marge, ‘Midst toothsome towers in the sky, A construction crane there looms large, Dwarfing the crowds of passersby. A new building grows, rising high, Clouding another patch of sky. A tower for trade will arrive Where businesses may fail or thrive. An unsung Mohawk warrior, And an iron-ribbed Spartan crane, Raising stanchions; bolting girders, Work in harmony on the frame. Clutching the cables of the crane, Beam rider goes where most aren’t fain; Riding angled steel slabs, held tight, High aloft, nearly out of sight. In their union, we may marvel: From out of an architect’s dreams, Row by row; level by level, They unfold a right-angled frame. And when the beam rider has gone, Who will recall his days bygone? For those who make real others’ dreams, That is the way it goes, it seems.