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.