a boy, perhaps, of thirteen or fourteen, looking crossed, wearing a 4xl white t-shirt and a pair of shorts just inches shy of being officially considered long pants by old timer haberdashers, cornrows furrowing his unbandannaed head. a young mother, perhaps, pregnant again with her second -- or is it third? -- child, her love handles just minutes shy of bursting out from her torso skimming mauve camisole. a grandmother with an ill-fitting brunette wig, insisting, at this time of the year, to wear a light aubergine cardigan and a sweltry support hose. and i.
we all faced front, nobody dared talking to each other. just there, keeping still, and feigning being rapt at the blinking numbers. all looked incredulous, though, and totally loathed to admit the grotesque report of our appearances by the shiny metal elevator doors. all had that unreconciled look in mug shots of people on their unwilling way to the pokey.
oh, this constant whir of coming and going, this arriving, this departing, this dance, this life. i still don't get it. i thought i had it all pat. i thought it was simply about starting street by intersection, avenue by junction. and then you either come up or go down. but if this is all, how come we all look stunned, so unamenable, when our numbers came flashing up and it was time for us to get out?
