Ode to the Eiffel Tower

I once read that you were nothing more

than a giant dick rising into the soft Parisian sky.

(I didn’t read that, I made it up, but who’s to know or care?)

Although man always can (and always will) build a bigger phallic,

you are the unmatched bachelor in this city of arches.

Fastened by a million bolts? A million links of steel?

What does it matter, anyhow?

If you really care, Google it.

Your glory lies in that like hope or love or god or death

you can be seen from almost anywhere,

but then at times you are forgotten.

And last night I discovered while chewing on a stale baguette,

that when night falls, you are not a penis after all.

Under the mystical guise of darkness

your steel staff transforms magically

into a golden waterfall in a diamond dress

that dances on the hour like moonlight on the sea,

and that no one, not even the dead, can watch with honesty

and not be moved.