Between Floors

Eight days without the elevator.

I know the stairwell now—the pale

emergency light on four that flickers later

than it should, the faint trail

of floor three's TV through the fire door,

the couple on two whose voices came

through on Tuesday. Not the words. More

like the current of them. The same

building I've been living in

for two years without knowing

what was next to me. The din

of other people's evenings, slowing

through concrete. On the landing

between three and four both floors

arrive at once. I stand there. Standing

for no reason. The sound pours

in from above and below and neither

is clear. The elevator's back

this week. I'll stop. I'll either

forget this or I won't. The crack

of light under each door.

The stairwell does this all day

without me.