'GATEWAY TO RICHES'

May 26 — we all met near John’s Grill.

(We was the ones the new Bridge didn’t kill.)

Jacky and Al and me flopped there and boozed.

‘We guys is jerks,’ I wheezed. ‘We all been used!

 

‘What we got? Nut’in’! No work. Prices high.

There’s soup lines again. We been hung out to dry.

WE got the Bridge built on time. We get squat.

Saved ’em a mill. I say, let’s get the lot.’

 

Al spilled his bourbon. Ol’ Jacky turned green.

‘The Plan — do it now, George? Is that what you mean?’

‘Sent this today,’ I crowed. ‘Piece o’ cake. Done!’

I scribbled my note. ‘It’s already begun.’

 

Mayor Angelo Rossi            (the personal touch)

bring one million dollars     (that isn’t too much)

or me and my team will destroy the south tower. 

Your Golden Gate Bridge will be gone.

We got power.

 

Jack stole a ’36 Chevy — last year’s.

We packed all our stuff in the trunk, with our fears.

We parked along Lincoln and put on our gear.

Midnight, we trudged to the tower. All clear.

 

We climbed and set guy-ropes. I whispered the rules.

‘Drill out the rivet-heads using your tools.

Set up a charge ’n’ a fuse in each one.

The key points is marked with a cross. Get it done.’

 

First light, the fog rolled in — just like I planned.

No one’d see us — from road, sea, or land.

I’ll never forget the clean air and the view ...

or how what we done was too good to be true.

 

Some’ing was up. There was noises below.

Our fog-shield was coming apart. Soon we’d show!

Up near the top, me ’n’ Jack heard a shot.

Al was below us — and in the wrong spot.

 

Al started climbing. I reached for his arm.

A second shot rang out. Al turned in alarm.

Drawn to its source beneath scattering clouds,

he swayed, slipped, and dropped to the deck an’ the crowds.

 

Gasps and shouts rose through the fog — with more shots.

‘Time to leave, Jacky! Untie th’ three knots!’

We crawled up the cable. ‘You ready, Jack? GO!’

We tugged at our backpacks.

We jumped —

and fell slow.

 

Hydrogen gas filled each swelling balloon.

We rose through the sky — not a minute too soon.

We swung from our blimps as the coppers and Feds

fired at our feet and our hearts and our heads.

 

We floated to freedom, the sun warm and high.

Except, we was lower. We’d sunk from the sky.

Our hand-made balloons leaked and shrank in the heat.

The fog became thinner. The water smelled sweet.

 

We dropped a bit faster. I swam through the air.

Jack flapped his arms. We was both nearly there!

The fog disappeared. 

Our balloons failed us then.

We landed ...

in Alcatraz Federal Pen.