Frame Rate

I'm standing by the elevator bank

in a garage that smells of exhaust.

I see the red light in the corner,

a glass eye tucked behind a dome.

I wonder if the person in the booth

notices how I keep adjusting my sleeves,

or how my hand stutters toward my pocket

like a bad edit in a film.

I’m trying to look like someone

who belongs in this concrete box,

performing the role of a man waiting

for a machine that is stuck

three floors below.