By Leylanaz Shajii,
Which floor he says. Six.
I can't see his face.
There's a metallic stool, to take a break
with a seat cover torn at the seam line.
He keeps his index on the number
and drops his head down
one hairy hand resting on his knee.
The door slides closed. Starts a tune,
the soundtrack of a movie
about a chemical attack.
His blue jacket double-breasted
with buttons missing.
His face, that I can't see,
casts a thousand words unspoken.
His head hung in the boredom of having to press
for those who can't read.
His head hung from the movement of his mobile confine
from the weight of the soundtrack
or from redundancy.
Hung in shame, hung in shame, hung in shame,
his face, I cannot see.
In the mirror, instead,
I look at my own,
at the elevator man in me.
Six. A recorded voice announces.
The music stops.
From the white corridor, another shriek.
An angel walks in,
clasps the elevator man's blue shoulder.
... Payvand News - 4/19/06 ... --