Between Floors

The brass is polished to a yellow glare

that shows the panic in my widened eyes.

I check my molars for a piece of pear

and fix the knot that keeps my sagging ties.

There is a smudge of grease upon the L,

a thumbprint from a hand that’s gone away.

I’m trapped inside this quiet, padded shell

with nothing left to do and less to say.

The box gives out a sudden, heavy lurch

between the fourth and fifth floors of the hall.

I feel like someone standing in a church

who doesn’t know the words to pray at all.