Landing at Three

The elevator’s dead again. Three days.

I’m hauling my groceries through a concrete haze.

On the third floor landing, I had to stop,

waiting for my lungs to finally drop.

A kid with a bike just stood there and stared,

like I was some relic that shouldn't be aired.

The fluorescent light hummed a low B-flat,

and I felt like a fool, and that was that.