Delaney laboured and wheezed up fourteen flights
The block elevator was locked down again
In snarls of singing, zinging wire and
Squealing cogs and pulleys, all rusted
In sooty shafts of drip-dripping water.
No matter how much bellicose, reactionary stabbing
And jabbing of buttons with digits took place
The mother was dead to the world.
And so, too, was Delaney upon reaching the top of
He keeled rigid and pale, maybe a touch blue
(Especially about his tight foam-flecked lips
as they pursed and sucked in silent paralysis).
Poleaxed amidst rolling cans and tumbling oranges,
Free of brown paper grocery bags dropped
To polished hardwood, as cable-cut elevators
Succumbing to gravity.
People said of Delaney, in that knowing way they talk of
He was always impatient and stubborn cursed with
A ruthless streak and a single-minded agenda
Of implacable resolve, unflappable will.
That he should have waited for the repair guy, you know?.
Me, I think he was just tired, hungry and dying of something.
Just wanting to make it home.
Just like you or I or anyone would,
At any given moment in time.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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