PUNK POETRY: Elevator by Tamiko Dooley

She faces the buttons.

Going up, Floor 34.                                 

The uniform hat perches on her slick and gleaming bun:

Regulation size.

Regulation lipstick, regulation gloves, regulation heels

(they measure them in the morning).

 

If you ask how often

A hand brushed against the back of her skirt

(regulation length)

Or fingers lingered on her waist

(regulation width)

She’d hide her teeth with her hand

cock her head to the side 

 

If she hears another joke about pressing her buttons

Or how the business is going

(It has its ups and downs)

her shoulders will shake 

With the laughter that bounces off four glass walls

 

But at night, after a bath she shares with three generations

In a cramped apartment a train ride away

Where they turn off the lights to save the yen

 

Her fingers grip the futon

 

When she closes her eyes she goes up and down

Inner ear confusing movement with memory

 

And as she sleeps, her teeth clench and unclench

Buttons pressed over and over

Grinding against each other in protest

Until they wear each other down over time

And nothing remains.

--Tamiko Dooley