Seventh Floor

Alone from the lobby, I rehearse—

full volume, hands up, giving the room

to people who aren't in the box yet.

Seven. Ding. Woman walks in.

My hand frozen mid-gesture,

fingers open, offering what

to whom. I dropped it.

She watched the numbers climb.

Twelve, she stepped out. Doors closed

and gave me back in steel—

mouth shut, hands flat.

Fourteen. Walked in. Said my piece.

Not as good as the version

I gave to no one.