Online Relationships

I am tired and wired

as the frayed fabric cord

of a toaster my grandmother

kept using, despite the cries

of "FIRE, FIRE" every time a slice

of her homebaked bread

went into the oven a second time.

Our planned meeting date,

at first so safely curled in the cozy

nest of the distant future,

now approaches with the speed

of glaciation, as tomorrow torture

drips into yesterday, and the day after

that becomes lost

as a forgotten coronation.

With every email, each phone contact,

my elevator makes an express trip

to the top of the Expectations Building.

The view from there is stupendous,

but where is the Down button,

the floors in between,

is the window the only exit?

I'm searching for the stairwell,

that drab spiral of concrete and metal,

where hoarse breaths echo and clang,

where landings give pause, and doors

open onto law offices

and insurance companies,

and pert receptionists ready to help.

I know myself well enough by now--

a life's practice of introspection

and second-guessing. I know just what to do.

I'll march past the dreary Stairs sign,

past the smirking receptionist,

I'll run, yelling, "Hold the elevator!

Hold the elevator!"