We’re trapped in the vertical shudder of the elevator

We’re trapped in the vertical shudder of the elevator,

the air smelling of wet wool and his cheap tobacco.

When the car hit the fourth floor and lurched,

he reached out to catch the brass railing,

and the sound was a flat, clinical thud.

It wasn't the sound of bone or a palm,

but a hollow vibration that traveled through the floor

and settled in the back of my own molars.

He didn't look at me, just adjusted his sleeve,

pulling the wool down over the hinge of his wrist.

I couldn't stop looking at the thumb,

a matte, unyielding curve of molded composite.

It was rubbed shiny at the tip, polished smooth

from the friction of a life it wasn't born to,

a piece of hardware trying its best

to pass for a gesture.