Someday you and I might meet in an elevator.
I might nod or move away from my feet, perhaps
look down or ask what floor; who knows?
You might be lonely but instead I might think you’re
an exec for a car company; maybe it’s the shoes.
You might believe I’m an artist of some kind,
while really I am only visiting my brother on the 40th floor
or maybe nothing enters your mind or maybe you
wonder how tall I am with only socks on.
Look, this is not some sort of personal ad solicitation;
I don’t even know you, okay? It’s about the perpetual
negotiation between pack animal and solitary animal,
between reticence and something spoken, anything spoken,
between understanding–okay, there is no understanding–
between the recognition of irrevocable loneliness and yet
wanton dissatisfaction with all the other choices.
Of all the things we might or might not have in common
on that day, this is for sure: we both will not hear the music,
we both will not remember the other riders,
we will both exit on our respective platforms
and let the remaining events of the day wash away
the elevator ride like the writing on one of those toys
we used to draw on when we were both kids, turning it
upside down and shaking it until it is once again blank.
And we will never know if any of this matters.