The elevator's guts are hanging in the shaft

The elevator's guts are hanging in the shaft

so I take the back way, the concrete and dust.

The air in the stairwell is heavy and draft,

smelling of cigarettes, bleach, and old rust.

On the landing of four, a heavy door thuds,

masking a shout and a plate hitting floor.

My heart is a motor that misfires and floods

as I hurry my pace toward the street and the door.

A single white sneaker sits lonely and flat

left on the third-floor return like a ghost.

I wonder who ran and left something like that,

the part of the story that matters the most.