Old Elevators Those old hotel elevators, old Because the hotels themselves are old And the hotels were built around them. The buttons, big as buffalo nickels, Long ago declined to glow and so, As the doors shakily clammer closed, You must admit you only think you know To what level of heaven You’re being raised towards. For what is heaven if not a five-star hotel You never have to check out of, Where the linens are always crisply clean, The pillows plumped, the minibar free, Provisioned with your favorite roast of coffee, The toiletries of the highest quality? Though you have only what you can carry, The cables seem to struggle to lift you. From time to time the thing seems to stall Like one of those old women in Rome Who, saggy with bags, pause to rest On the landings of the stairwell Of a building so old It doesn’t know what an elevator is. You consider the button to ring for help, Wonder who sits listening at the other end, Wonder what they could even do If this old elevator were to become A cell of stainless steel walls Stuck in the Netherland between floors. And then, of course, just when you’re sure You have to ring it, The silver chime shines And the doors tremble open Like a pair of hands that have been holding A butterfly for children to see.