The Year I Believed in Escalators

I wanted to get this one out of my head for a long while, and it finally happened at two in the morn­ing, as these things invari­ably do. This poem doesn’t blur the lines between fic­tional and non-fictional so much as for­gets they ever existed.

the year I believed in
escal­at­ors ended on a Sunday -
fol­low­ing the bil­low of my mother in shop­ping flight I
saw my escal­ator disem–
bowled; its soft dark guts scattered
in between wrenches and
ther­mos flasks and men;
it was hal­ted in mid­breath with the roll of its steps
rifled through, trifled with; it no longer sung its
ei-ii, ei-ii song, it was dead and
silent; they called it repaired but that was the year
I no longer believed in escalators.

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