Queuing
for the step feed, footstep slides onto steel grooves, clunk music. Our
illusion of ascent is perpetuated, perpetuated. Moving stare cases hold the
left rail, seamless screen readers, loose change managers. Tourists with
trunk-bags heave on-board the obstacle course of ease. Don’t Walk, Walk. Right-siders
tip-toe sole groves to the mezzanine, unless daydreamers stop the flow, or an
arrogant standabout doesn’t care less, affronted by excuse me politeness.
Out-of-towners learn procedure, dressed in their February best. An informal
feeling resumes as the top approaches, we stationaries testing for the step
off, our childhood fear of being sucked under, transitory.
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