Between Floors

The elevator is choked with a 'closed' sign

so I take the concrete route instead.

The lightbulbs are flickering in the high corners,

casting long shadows the color of lead.

I stopped on the landing to catch my breath

and heard a low sobbing through the fire door.

It was muffled and thick, a private kind of grief

echoing up from the hollow of the floor.

I looked at the grey anti-slip tape on the steps,

peeling away where the boots have been heavy.

I didn't knock. I just stood in the dark,

waiting for the leak to turn into a levee.