Stairwell, Fifth Floor

I was between floors when it happened—

between the four and the five,

bag still on one shoulder,

going neither direction.

Through the concrete window:

the parking lot below,

the sky doing something

I can't name exactly.

Orange-pink through the cloud cover,

the kind that doesn't last.

The hood of a gray car caught it first.

Held the color for maybe forty seconds.

Sat there like it had somewhere to be.

Nobody came up or down.

I stood there with my bag.

I haven't left on time in two weeks.

I don't usually catch this part.

Then the hood went flat.

The lot went gray.

I went down.