Author Information
Sam
A four A.M.
service elevator
two grey ghosts
I turn and I ask him,
Does he enjoy his work?
They’re all the same, he says
they all want their pound of flesh
and a little bit more.
He doesn’t look at me
nor at anything
not even the dull pleasure of a
weary sigh.
A week before
I am being interviewed by
a fresh faced Manager
in an impeccable tie
have you met the night shift manager?
he asks
he’s… and he hesitates slightly
deciding to cut his eulogy short
… he’s approachable.
In the elevator
for the billionth time
staring through the sheet metal
he knows the graffiti
drowned in a yellow coat
the smallest of men
hairline vanquished
ten years of loyal service etched on his
face and all he gets is
approachable.
I don’t know which saddens
me more, him
or his neanderthal colleagues
cutting through the air like a freighter
morning comes and they
declare their fatigue with
immovable joy
back tonight
ha ha ha
and head home
and don’t give a fuck.
But no
I think it’s him
Sam
sitting at home alone
as the morning begins to happen
as events begin to exist
outside of him
maybe staring through the
early football highlights
maybe a nine A.M. beer
to wash away any
unwelcome
lingering
senses
because there is no one
to write a poem for him
because he will fade away
like a rainy day
simply tolerated
then forgotten.
