New Hampshire Suite V

V. 

They have listed it as an ‘attraction’

on the hotel’s curated website; so we wait,

impatiently, in the crowded lobby for

its eventual arrival –the manned elevator,

devoid of push buttons, embossed numbers

of floors; its every stop, an operator’s practiced judgment.

Its descent, slow and weighty, carrying

a family of three, this box, our transport, is a square cut

of cherry –a wooden sky, satiny, walls

mostly gouged then planed with glass, and a corner

stool, on which, he sits, motioning

the bronze handle in a rehearsed, geometric arc.

We shuffle in, following others. Our destination, all –

to floor three. The grille gate, making of our space   

a beautiful cage, its ascent, a motion

of mechanical wonder. But seconds later,

we come to a pause –unknown to us,

the reason; a cog’s disobedience, or maybe

a pulley’s greaseless cough. And all of a sudden, this ‘attraction’

now, an inconvenience, an ‘outdated

system’, someone’s impatient remark. He turns left

the handle, then right, all the way to the bowl of midnight,

his fingers tied in a familiar struggle,

but we move, not an inch. Three attempts,

failed, he calls for help, eventually, while

others busy themselves with the news, weather

of the valley, on their phones’ phosphorescent screens;

myself, the only exception, staring

at a wall etching above; noticing then, a palmette –

its one leaf missing.