the slow elevators

the slow elevators
are not a lesson in patience.
i stare at
the three blue doors, all
needing a new
coat of paint
and gaze at the blinking
numbers above them,
a crowd gathers as they
wait too.
there are groans as one
elevator nears
the first floor, but
then goes up
again to ten, then twelve.
there's one in the basement,
the middle one,
but it isn't moving,
the light stuck on B.
another fluctuates
between six and seven,
occasionally dropping
to five.
some people take the stairs,
cursing as they bang
up the steps,
others
lean against the wall
or one another.
a prayer begins as children
cry,
someone throws down
a rug and lies down
facing mecca.
there's a war dance,
a rosary appears.
a man holding a snake
throws it in the air,
his bug eyes rolling in his head.
a woman wearing
culottes places her
hands on door number three
and begins speaking
in tongues.