Hoover Dam by jim dolan

he pulled the blue ford business man's
coupe over to the side, a gravelled stretch,
and out we climbed, onto the hoover

dam.  the concrete shell blocked the black
rock gorge, and behind it all the blue

water in the world waited, angry at being
so pent up.  we walked the dog, ate mustard
and ham sandwiches on white, glugged down

ice cold water from the thermos, carefully doled
out by my mother.  i wondered away, to look over
the edge.  at the bottom,  billions of

gallons of water crashed and exploded in a
white hell, sending a rainbow across the gorge.

looking down, i felt myself falling over the side,
being crushed by the tons of icy blue.  in a

rapture of vertigo,

i tore myself away and turned, saw my brother
and sister running in circles, my mother stowing and
packing in the car.  my father leaned against the car,

the dog sitting leashed and patient, her tongue
flagging the dry desert air.  my father munched his
sandwich, absently,  eyes up into the sky, not

here, not here at the hoover dam.