You face an elevator
holding your resentments,
grudges packed tightly
angers folded neatly.

You set down the baggage,
press the button.
When the door slides open
you step inside.

“I’m free,” you think
as you speed up or down.
You know where you’re going.
You lie, of course.

You feel the resentments
tucked in your purse,
stuffed in your wallet,
close to your body.

March, 2002