Floor Four Point Five

The elevator car is taking its time

dropping toward the street.

A man in a suit that costs more than my car

is staring at my feet.

I see what he sees:

the salt-stained scuff on the blue suede toe

where I kicked the curb in the slush.

It won't rub off. It's a permanent map

of every time I didn't look where I was going.

I want to tell him I'm usually more together.

I want to tell him I'm worth the ride.

But the doors slide open on G

and he steps out before I can even apologize.