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.