the elevators

the elevators
are beyond slow in this building.
we wait.
a crowd of three,
becoming six,
then ten.
all looking at their
phones or watches,
impatient as we shift
our feet. sigh,
and let out groans
of exasperation.
we stare at the numbers
above the shut doors
one two and three,
the arrows pointing up,
one coming down.
they seem to stop at all
floors, letting
people on or off.
we grow old, waiting.
our hair thins and turns grey.
our bones sag,
our vision blurs.
the world outside
this building spins.
the seasons change.
we stare at the doors to
open, for our turn
to get in.