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The ladder is rusted, rough against my palms,
and I am climbing toward the moon that smiles sadly
on everything, but especially on this:
the end of an era.

The ladder is rusted – I feel the residue of it between my fingers
more than I see it in the semi-dark.
I can hear him breathing somewhere

below.
I imagine his forearms must be shaky like mine.
His breathing makes me nervous.

The rungs don’t stop, and I handle them as they come.
They’re just filing from the ceiling like DNA,
like a trellis to a bedroom window.
The moon lives up here, among the cables
that support the stage curtain.

The names and graduating years of all the visitors of this place
cover the walls –
and the letters painted by scared kids
with shaky forearms
are all that’s left, now that the rust has washed off their palms
and their diplomas sit, dusty and framed, in boxes and corners all over town.

The memory of those walls and
the rust on my palms and
my trembling incriminate me,
And I walked out of here with a guilty smile up at the moon,
who smiled sadly back on this last night of an era.

I remember betrayal, and I don’t relish admitting the lie –
but the slow panic of climbing down from a height has receded,
and the sky is open above me now
and Orion is standing guard,
and it seems like spring is here forever.

School’s as good as over and I’m as good as gone –
without even a splash of shaky paint to commemorate my presence.

I didn’t think I’d feel guilt at this,
my only stunt to date –
but a full moon shoots my shame back at me
with a sad smile I’m projecting onto it –
and finally the parking lot is empty
on this night at the end of an era.