Stairway Robyn Makaruk

Ribbons of fog painted the rails with a lip gloss shine

That beat out the brilliance of the full moon.

The cable car announced its arrival at the bottom of the hill

with squeals of iron-on-iron, and the ratchet of the gripman’s pulling on the brakes.

In the damp night air, the driver rapped out his signature tattoo on the bell.

It was the last run of the night to pick up the handful of bloodshot eyes

coming out of the Buena Vista.

The bartender had listened to the same old stories about 

glory days of conquests and failures.

He responded to calls of “play it again, Sam” as they 

nursed glasses of broken dreams all the while 

dressing their damaged hearts in camouflage. 

“Last call, ladies and gentlemen,” 

and when the trysting hour approached

he purposely mixed the last “one for the road” on the light side.

A repeat of the tattoo from the cable car’s bell

drove all who might ride, across the street.

A deep baritone voice rang out

“All Aboard on your Stairway to the Stars. 

Hang on tight, it’s a mighty climb,”

his voice merging with the melancholy sound

of the fog horns echoing across the Bay.