In Vertical Transit

“Sixth floor”, I said, dodging the closing elevator door.
“Are you sure?” asked the aging woman operator.
Many folks get off on the wrong floor,
Missing their one chance in life.
People come, people go, some on improbable errands,
Others just for the ride, I guess.
Yesterday a laughing couple got out at five,
The marriage license desk.
Later they rode down arguing.
I let off a pair of punks at nine last week,
Green and blue hair sticking out,
Leather clothes, chains-a-clunking.
Haven’t seen them since.
Did they slip by?
A woman with seven children went up this morning.
They’ve been coming down one by one
Every hour on the hour.
Once a distraught fellow said he wanted
To jump from the top.
I let him off the third floor
Instead of the twelfth.
I spend eight hours a day in vertical transit.
“Well, here you are,” she said. “Ground floor.”

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2020.
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.