Six Flights Up

Elevator's out again. Always is.

Six flights, concrete, worn in the middle.

My breath catches, a dull, familiar fizz.

The air grows thick, a heavy riddle.

The scuffed treads, the cold rail in my hand.

Each landing, identical, humming light.

Just this, a journey through a narrow land.

Another step, another endless night.

Just going up, or down, or in between.

Never quite arriving, always in the climb.

This transient place, this dull, repeating scene.

One foot after another, killing time.