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Elevator Music

A slam without a goodbye,

and pangs of the world ending

by the sixth-floor elevator

until you run out, arms extended,

and moist eyes meet moist eyes

as the tough old globe spins on.

Anger’s a thing of darkness, but

forgiveness is Shakespearean: it calls for

gardens and dances, lanterns strung from trees.

I am no dancer, so instead I’ll tell you

that rage, like everything else of late,

has suffered a sea change: no longer

a bleak Bermuda Triangle

in which my flailing ardor drowned,

it’s a bit of trash, a bottle cap

bobbing on gentle waters—

much like the way this awful plaid carpet

absorbs a tear that will have dried

next time the elevator brings me here.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Poems Rachel Wetzsteon

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