a poem for boris

no metaphors were harmed in the making of this poem

I hate elevators.
small boxes that squeeze-you-sort-of-trap-you–in. With
p e o p l e
who you would normally never-
never, spend time with, and never, ever would touch. With
p e o p l e
who generally - Smell too much;
either bad, or who do not understand -
the concept of restraint,
with aftershave. With
p e o p l e
on cell phones talking endlessly, 'looking important'
with farting
p e o p l e
who pretend it wasn’t
Them.

and The Music.

I help moms with kids,
and old people
when I can
then I find a corner at
The Back, head down,
and wait,

and Wait.

My Spot at The Back
I’m always Waiting from that Spot at the Back
elevators – school - parties – life
all for me, its where you
can-just-lean-against-the-wall
Not Be
snuck up on, and then have 'look important'
and
the farters -
are usually near the food.

Boris Pasternak once inferred -
that a metaphor
is
the shorthand of the gods,
those with overfull mental plates must move in leaps
rather than walk like other mortals


Me,
I walk in mortal steps,
carefully placed ones
outside when I can.
its not like I have anything,
against metaphors,
some of my closest friends,
were metaphors
but my mental plate is not-
what you would call
o v e r f l o w i n g.

The Back.

Boris was likely the sort of
p e r s o n
who liked to be-
at The Front of the elevator,
Pushing Everyone’s Buttons
for them;
asking them Which Floor and such,
all the while
h e a p i n g
things onto his Mental Plate.

and that’s great,
everyone needs
a Spot
on the elevator,
if everyone wanted to
Push Buttons, or
Talk
on the phone, or
I shudder to think,
Fart,
elevator society as we know it
would collapse
and we’d all be on the stairs.

speaking of stairs
I think that’s where
I’m going
now.

see you later
Boris.