When I was young, in Ridgewood, Queens,

the Citicorp building was a metal animal -

a place my grandmother moved quietly inside at night.

My eyes were always drawn to that arrogant slice.
From our window in Ridgewood,

it stood in Manhattan like some predator -
all razor roof geometry, its long machined city angle.

It seemed awake, a steel fang waiting above the streets
as I stared back at it at night.
Young, I imagined the building breathing.
Elevators moving through its throat.
Escalators through its veins.

I was afraid of its crown - that city metal talon,
And my grandmother was inside it.
Inside it, while we all slept,
pushing a cart and polishing glass, dusting desks,
her wrinkled hands cleansing with water and soap.

The building must have felt her.
The floors settling under her mop.
Its offices calmed by her wiping,
How its machinery's growl quieted while she worked.
The predator learning to breathe calmly under her rhythm.

Her footsteps across its late-night floors,
like a hand held out to a creature comfortable with her scent.
By morning, it stood in the window again -
still, polished, and always arrogant.

But I knew its secret.
Inside that animal - inside that alloy-dusted incline,
my grandmother walked its metallic spine
and made it gentle enough for the day through her labor.
The rooms and floors were ready.
The halls cleaned, their bins unburdened.
Its noise quieted before the sun came up.
Her shift finished.

Even now, I see her put her coat on and go home.