David Plantinga

poem #11






The elevator’s sealed its lips.
It keeps its secrets well.
Inside might hunch a nameless face,
I really cannot tell.

To stand, a pair, so silently,
Bound in an unvoiced pact,
Is sore and heavy awkwardness
Light coughing can’t redact.

An almost empty iron box
Is crushing loneliness,
Better to take on dozens next,
Shame smothered in that press.

Anonymity’s a heavy weight
To carry between two,
But shrouded multitudes can share
Whatever burdens you.

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