A lonely rainy day—
no real reason to be lonely
except for some stuff that happened
a long time ago, back when I was
from one to four feet tall—
I walked inside the hotel elevator.
It was a new hotel so naturally
I wanted to go up and
see the view from the top.
I stepped in alone and was enveloped
in perfume; a smell so wet and thick
I couldn’t see through it, couldn’t find
the lighted row of floor buttons to push; I inhaled
deeply
this enveloping perfume
that was mailing me somewhere else.
The elevator door closed.
I oozed through the aroma, it was wetting me down,
weighing me down, filling me up, found
the buttons, and pushed
ROOF.
I wasn’t really in the elevator anymore
not in the hotel anymore
not lonely anymore
nor four feet tall.
I began to speak, right out loud—
Who was she? Where is she?
Oh, boy ... all the people we’ll never meet
or get to know.
The elevator wasn’t talking.
But when it got to the roof,
it had the instinct to reverse direction
and blink off the floors
one at a time
back down to the
GROUND FLOOR.
