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Elevator Land

Elevators chime softly in soul station
banks of chrome going up, going down
button-less they wait in patient rows
stretching silver ghosts, adjusting
new-old costumes

they have no control over destinations
new immigrants, their turnstiles click
in turn, every two seconds a baby is born
in Africa; in an uptown maternity home

Funerals in the rain, they wait
mourners huddling under umbrellas, knocked
down by cars, in rockers knitting to the end
felled by famines, hurricanes, earthquakes
all waiting patiently, going up, going down
swish, click, chime, the rows stretch
round the block, patient faceless
each in his own capsule, like
pneumatic tubes in last centuries
department stores, swish and you’re gone
swish, your change – bright new pennies

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© Johnmichael Simon



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