Birthday Card From An Escalator Poem by Allen Braden

Magic stairs, you said, new to language then. Steps appear
and disappear. Because you are now thirteen, I wait
for you to vanish. What I mean: for some teenager
to show through. Today cool music fills the hollow flute

of your body. This inevitable song grows, spills
across delicate merchandise and poised mannequins,
over kiosks and countertops, the town mall a small
version of a city. Your god is a musician

harmonizing blood, eggs and bone. Beneath us, one step
rises. Then another. This escalates. Whatever
melody plays inside, resist it. Whether hip hop
or pop rock is proof of magic, do not go. Keep clear

of stairs that lift you from one level to another.