Between Floors

The cable shudders and the box decides

to hold us here, four inches past the mark.

A man in a damp wool coat stands three inches

from my shoulder. I can see the pores on his neck,

the way the salt has dried in the creases of his skin.

It’s too much information for a Tuesday.

The number 4 is flickering, a dying orange pulse

behind the plastic button. We all look at the floor,

at the scuffed metal stripping, waiting for the jerk

that means we are allowed to move again

and pretend we didn't just share our breathing.