The Same Motion

I pushed through the same revolving door

I used to push through every morning,

but I was on the other side now,

standing in the lobby

like I was visiting,

like I didn't belong here anymore,

like the building had moved on

and I was just

a ghost of the person

who used to work here.

The brass handle is worn smooth

from thousands of hands,

from thousands of people

coming in and going out,

and I put my hand on it

like I used to,

like muscle memory

could trick time into reversing,

but the handle is just a handle,

and the door just turns,

and I'm still on the other side

of where I started.

I looked at the directory board

and didn't recognize

a single name,

didn't know who works here now,

didn't know if anyone remembers me,

didn't know if the bathroom still has

that broken stall lock,

if the break room still has

that coffee maker

that only worked

if you jiggled it just right.

The glass is slightly foggy

from years of breath,

from years of people

pushing through,

coming in, going out,

the constant circulation

of bodies and ambition,

and I was one of those bodies once,

pushing with purpose,

thinking I was going somewhere,

thinking the motion meant

something,

thinking the next rotation

would be different,

would be better,

would be the one

that finally took me

where I wanted to go.

But the door just turns,

the same motion,

the same brass handle,

the same foggy glass,

and everyone inside is new,

and I'm standing in the lobby

like I'm waiting for someone

to tell me

what I'm supposed to do now,

now that I'm not

one of the bodies

moving through the rotation,

now that I'm just

a person looking in

at the familiar thing

that has become

completely strange.