Pragmatism in the Galleria

2 Minutes Read Time

This photograph shows an elevator in operation, with the blur of the lighting and buttons visible all over the metallic walls of the elevator and in the photograph.
There must be escalators somewhere, 
because, honestly, what on earth
could not be seen as practical?
Mathematically scarred bits of solidity
rise like a heartbeat into view,
then vanish into their own mechanics.
These devices are doing a great service
to people desirous of movement,
a feeling one often has at bluest noon
when day pinions the idea of space to space itself.
Of course, by this I do not mean that light
holds things together, practically. Rather,
that it distracts us from our coming apart.

The last time I was smitten with genius,
it made this point so well
that when it sent the botched Rube Goldberg
machine of my heart down to the parking garage
via the elevator and left me there,
I spent an hour waiting for my hazard
lights to sync up with my pulse. They never did.
I’m not making local news. I’m not coming
home to you. I’m not thinking ’bout the party
store in Northbrook. I’m not cut out to be cruel
but I keep on being cruel. Who’d have thought
the fall from grace would be monastic? How sad
and desultory, these things that keep us up to scrutinize
the Wi-Fi router’s cobalt and clandestine Morse
against the other wall.

Read more from Issue 17.1.

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