Waiting Out the Rent

The elevator stayed on four

long enough for him to walk in,

shaking his umbrella by the mailboxes.

I turned the corner, quick,

bolted into the lobby stall.

The silver screw head on the hinge

is jagged and loose,

rattling when someone enters.

I’m staring at a number

scratched into the paint.

616—my old area code,

from back when my mother

still had that green couch.

I stay here until the door chimes

and the lobby goes quiet.