We are between floors.There are no windows.
A finite space. Clear boundaries. No surprises.
We look in the direction of travel
Though we have no control of our descent.
Whose face do those green sparkling heels belong to?
I think of Jonah in his whale, How at first
It must have been like entering a cathedral at dusk
But when the whale sounded, how like this plummeting lift.
Knees brace discretely. Men spread their feet.
Those green heels wobble. We stop. Door glides open.
Dante or Milton may have called it Hell, the barrier
Of bulging briefcases and Lego faces waiting there,
Inert, to ascend. Those heels tap. Someone pushes.
Every second counts. Goodbye Jonah. This is lunchtime.