Poem: The Elevator That Only Goes Up

Poem: The Elevator That Only Goes Up

I’m late for my meeting. I’m just coming out of my appointment, and I have no time in between anything. Schedule as packed as the buildings in the city.
I use to be an ant in a city-sized maze, but now I’m finding the direction I want to go. Up.
I enter the elevator, and hit the 100th floor.
How long will it take me to get there?

I settle in the corner, doors of time closing, and I begin to leave the past behind.
I’m on my way up to a masquerade dressed as a robot. Leaving all parts of me that are human in poems. This is what I wanted. I want to be here.
I’m the American Dream. Paycheck to paycheck being used as a dreamcatcher.
In an elevator that will take me where I can be someone, be something, taking me higher and out of the ground.

No where else, I don’t want to go back down ever. Not again. It takes to long to come from the ground’s floor and back into the office this far up.
The only time I can look down on people when I’m on higher floors. And when I do look down from the glass walls of my elevator, the people look like old copies of myself on the sidewalk, crossing the street without looking both ways, lost in the maze.

But the elevator, it stoped moving. Is it broken? Faulty? Scared?
I’m late. I can’t be late and risk the future by going back in time.
I panic.
I smash the buttons of the elevator I wished just went up. Please don’t go any other direction, I need to get to my meeting.
I press the button to 100th floor several times.
With every press, a new prayer.
Please keep moving.
Don’t stop.
You can do this.
Don’t give up.
Try and smile, don’t cry.
People are counting on you.
This can’t be happening, not now.
The old copies I saw now on the street now looking more like reflections with every passing minute of me being still.

Pressing the emergency button, but no response.
Can no one hear me? Or am I being ignored?
Beating on the doors of my elevator for someone to please help me, but I’m a penny being dropped down a shallow well, wishing for someone to ask me what is wrong so this elevator can be fixed. My finger nails carving how many days spent in this soundproof platform.
If this elevator dropped, would no one would hear the crash?
Just find a smiling corpse. And if they asked the dead body what happened, they would say nothing.

I’ll never get there. The only place for me is this corner of an elevator that is broken, can’t move, hard to replace, and dangling on a thread carrying heavy weight. The door opens, and I’m not there.

I’ll never get there in time.

But maybe losing a busy schedule would mean I can sleep forever.

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