Elevator Ride

Looking at the cracked plastic circle Illuminated
I wait for the large box to fall from the sky.
The logic in this circle perpetrated
With a finger’s second push I deny

That the button’s already been pushed
By the other individual waiting
To step inside and be wooshed
In the act of elevating.

I look at him and crack a smile,
then stare at the numbers descending
He’d been doing it for a while
And I find interest in pretending

I know which doors to step toward.
A ding breaks my trance to guide me
moving as a two-person horde,
A blockade with him beside me,

We move to the silvery doors.
Ready to courteously back away
If a crowd of people outpours
From the mystical box of today.

Horizontally retracting doors hold the notion,
Differing from some sliding glass doors that I’ve known,
With a stickless, StarTrek, inviting motion
We’re ushered inside to be shown

More of ourselves on reflective distorting surfaces.
The brushed metal imagery will help us keep quiet
Lest we find consorting purposes
To interrupt this silencing riot.

We both file in, him first and then me
He decides to go in and secure deep
I egg on conversation and choose to be
The button pusher and pick the first “beep.”

“Floor?” I say to which he responds nonverbally
By extending his hand and retracting it then
In a choice to avoid this hyperbole.
But I push the button again.

Toilet Paper Roll

It’s a wonder to me
how it came to be
That the TP was replaced
Since my wife and I
Don’t always try
To restock the wiper of waste.

Must have been someone we know
Who put the roll upon our spindle
As a guest who really had to go
And replace our paper dwindle.

‘Cause often our roll sits perfectly still
To be picked up off of the window sill
Then slowly unwound in my hand
Before it’s placed on end, to stand

Wherever it is I can reach,
On the edge of the bath tub or sink.
This thought process I preach
Won’t stop when I do to think

“wow, it’s time to replace the roll”
‘Cause loading the spindle evades me
as I avoid the awkward stroll
with an extra roll that aides me.

Before my Children get up

I could go back to sleep, but this silence rests in my open eyes
Slouched and couched I dream of turning the coffee on, to my surprise
I already did that, but it’s two rooms away smelling strongest.
This duration of listening to white noise could be my longest.

I let coffee make slurps in the other room rather than get up
In my final moments of solitude I’ll slowly fill my cup.
Until isolation’s interrupted by a child’s crying
I’ll be sitting on the couch with my feet up calmly denying

that my solitude runs clockwise ’till kids get up and out of bed.
Somedays this spitup covered boppy should stay lodged under my head.