The Hallway

The elevator is a metal box of steam.

The lab is leaning against my knee,

his coat soaked through from the street.

He smells like old wool and wet earth,

a heavy, honest stink that fills the space.

I’m standing here in my pressed suit,

trying to look like I have it together.

But the dog just shakes and hits the walls.

I’m jealous of the way he carries his mess

without checking to see who’s watching.

I wish I could just be damp and loud.