The Sign Says Accessible
The button has not worked for three months.
Someone filed the plan.
Someone approved the form.
Someone put up the sign and called it done.
Not done.
We know the ramp.
We know the sky above it
the same sky you called beautiful the day you cut the ribbon,
the day the photographs were taken.
We built our day around the sign's promise.
We got here.
The door did not open.
There is a number to call
we have called it.
A form to fill
we have filled it.
A ticket number rusting in a queue behind things more urgent than a door that will not open.
More urgent than this?
A promise is not a plan.
Not a ribbon,
not a form,
not a ticket number rusting in a queue.
A promise is a door that opens.
Fix it.
Not once, for the photograph.
On the Tuesday no one watches,
with the toolkit,
with the person who comes back,
because someone will be here tomorrow who needs this to work.
Beauty is not the opening day.
It is the maintenance.
The fixing.
Again.
And again.
For as long as people need to cross.
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