Life for Midwesterners is
a dull elevator ride,
all of us passengers—amicable in our continual exchange
of pleasantries and Christian virtues.
Living, simply a matter of patience,
is expectantly
watching the panel above the door enumerate the lottery of floors.
If we dispel all ruckus we can get through this together.
I once disproved the notion that those who never tried
to escape a locked room
were never locked-up at all.
This is why Midwesterners dislike outsiders:
they kick and scream and pound in
the machine
until they escape on some level,
leaving the doors broken and ajar.
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