Are elevator dreams limited to people in academic disciplines who go to conferences in big hotels? Do they have a particular meaning? This poem reflects on one such dream.
At the Annual Conference
I dream of elevators
in a large hotel. A wish
to be lifted up? One is
too crowded, the next
stops at floor nineteen,
my room on seventeen.
As I realize I could
walk down two flights,
the doors close, reopen
on floor twelve, my fear
of yielding control
justified. The next
elevator goes
through the roof,
travels sideways,
glass walls providing
a view of the city.
Seeing that big box
from the street, I
know I’ve missed
a flight to freedom.
I hope you appreciate the tall-building shape. I’ve been tinkering with this poem for a couple of years, but still haven’t figured out what I wanted to fly away from. That is probably another poem.
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