The elevator's cage is locked in black

The elevator's cage is locked in black.

I take the stairs, the concrete

sending the slap of my boots

up into the dark.

The third floor smells like boiled cabbage.

Under 3B, a fan of yellow envelopes

is curling like dried fruit,

piling up because no one is home.

The light overhead has a nervous tic.

It strobes against the green linoleum

until the floor looks like a fish belly,

pale and wet and ready to be gutted.