Between Floors

The elevator gave up on Tuesday,

so I am learning the concrete geometry of the back-end.

On the fourth-floor landing, the air is a solid thing,

smelling of old plaster and the dust of people moving out.

A pile of cigarette butts sits in the corner

next to a crushed can of sugar-free neon blue.

Somebody spent an hour here hiding from a life

that was waiting just behind a heavy fire door.

I grab the yellow-painted handrail to steady the climb.

It vibrates under my palm, a low metal shiver

whenever a door slams three stories up,

reminding me that we are all just stacked boxes

waiting for the light to work again.