archives.

I’m in the elevator, button glowing, going down, falling 
past words wedged in the floorboards, a receipt 
for nails, an empty sugar packet. I’m reaching 
into my purse, looking for chewing gum, looking

for the knife I will stab into the man in the poly-blend 
jacket, cinched waist. Looking for the gum 
to freshen my breath, looking for the gun 
that will spray bullets in the vaulted, gilded

lobby, slay the unsuspecting.
I’m on my way to the bus, but I see this one 
first. I’m getting on, riding anywhere, past 
stops and streets I’ve never seen.

I’m looking in my purse for some ones. I’m digging 
as the woman at the window smirks 
at the bruised pear dropping from my touch. 
I’m looking in my purse for my pistol. Her face

will go still, eyes exophthalmic with surprise, 
and I’ll get my ticket for free.
I’m at the platform. I’m sitting 
on the bench full of stains, stories, scratches. I’m sitting

in the middle, and I’m thrusting my hands out, forcing
the others to fall, making 
more room for me.
I’m getting on the bus, watching

the empty bench sulk away through the plexiglass, 
and I’m falling, 
thumb and finger pinched over my nose, 
other arm wild at my side.