Ode to the Elevator That Stops at Every Floor

I pressed Lobby.

I pressed it with conviction.

With intent. With the clear energy

of someone who has places to be.

You stopped at Nine.

No one was there.

You closed, as if considering your choices,

then opened again, just to check.

Six. A man got in.

He pressed Six. You were already at Six.

He pressed it twice more.

I said nothing. This was not the time.

Four. Three. Two.

Each floor a meditation

on the nature of patience.

Lobby.

At last.

Five minutes later.

I am a changed person.

The elevator has taught me something

I will never forgive it for.