My City is Not Called Ladders
There is a park built in this city for people who want to show up with their ladders. A park for people who are always thinking, “Maybe that’s my ladder.” My neighbors are buying ladders wherever they shop. They try putting their ladders sideways so they can walk into their neighbor’s bedroom. “Hello, neighbor!” Their ladders have mirrors hung from each rung. They claim to be in a relationship with the ladder, but it’s unclear what that will lead to. My city prefers to be called Hope. But who is it that’s actually hopeful? People think ladders are hopeful. That’s optimistic. People are living and living and living and living. They are a living thing. They are a simple organism that prefers looking up. And over. And around. And into everyone’s business. But not down. We all know it’s scary down there! My city, all you think about are stars. You are mountains at night blocking out the view of the stars. You are an old soul. Your ladders are poorly aged. And all you can do is imagine what down looks like when you see a ladder going by. You keep calling yourself Hope. I am not hopeful for you. The word denizen is not hopeful. And that’s what you’re full of. Yes, you were built on the side of a mountain. Every year, you start to fall off the mountain. Then, just in time, you catch hold of a ladder. Maybe that’s the extent of what you call hope.