Push the buttons.
The levers shift with
the weight of it all.
Floor 5, please.
Today, it’s Floor Three-and-a-half
stuck somewhere in-between
the black and white, the grey.
“Millennials don’t dooo anything!”
the Baby Boomer grad classmate
bemoans, while the Professor raises his
eyebrows at us. “Well?”
Outnumbered, we respond
I can only speak for myself
but I will go to bed hungry again tonight.
Thirst for knowledge is louder than
A classmate: My family immigrated here. Our
home is thousands of miles away. Our friends
will never see the inside of this classroom,
this avenue they call Freedom. So I’m here.
Portrait of a Millennial who forgot her
purse, who is now stuck in an elevator.
We won’t call it a broken elevator
because it may well rise again,
and we should give it that chance.
The purse not in the elevator
holds insulin syringes,
juice in case of
Being stuck in an elevator with
type 1 diabetes and no purse
is what anxiety spends your entire life
training you for:
finding a way out when all is lost
in a corn field maze of ridiculousness.
PUSH TO CALL
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY!
You push, it calls.
Ringing. No one is home
on the other side. Please
leave a message.
You drop to the floor and pray
You pound at the doors but they
are walled shut. Without insulin
life bleeds you dry within hours.
Open the doors! Dooo anything.
This won’t be the first time,
nor the last, when your back is
against the wall.
We’re at Floor Three-and-a-half
There’s still time
We’re just getting started
We’re almost there
No Rules Poetry