Scraping the sky

Sheathed in glass and steel, looming over its neighbors

Yet unremarkable in every way but for that crane

Recently unmoored by wind, reinstated now on its skyperch,

Strapped on its aery, atop six or seven unclad floors,

Unfinished, raw, wrapped in brown, unceremoniously

Plain, unlike the giant pencil box skyscraper on which

It sits, the builing sheathed in steel and glass,

Looming blue and grey, under blue skies and white

Clouds, yearning for completion