You once dreamed of bedding down in elevators.
Maybe your young life had been touched
by prolonged contact with suburban commerce.
Maybe you had been sexually confounded
by the strain of cinnamon in the air,
or bleating saxophones beamed from low orbit.
Maybe you skipped pennies across
the dimpled waters of the fountain
and recited under your breath
wishes so desperate you recanted in that instant.
Teenagers veered about in misery.
Mall-walkers hissed like adders.
There were grandchildren, there were balloons
they had all let go of, screaming,
there were anatomically indistinct
iterations of the human body
wearing suggestions of life behind glass windows.
It should not go unsaid
how happy you were.
How free of predatory lending practices.
Your ligaments did creak
like ropes in a storm.
You dreamed of dreaming about nothing else.
Only this: rising, descending,
over and over until no one would come in,
and you were alone in a box.
You thought of coffins,
how complacent a comparison,
you said to nobody in particular
as you waited for the doors to shut and motion to resume.