The elevators in my building are haunted
I hear them moving up and down my 15 story building 
Yet I never hear or see a soul
I hear the elevator doors creak open and close
I hear padlocks on doors frantically latched aside
But I’ve never seen a face
I’ve never heard a voice
I take the stairs… 
Even though the 7th floor can be a bit inconvenient
I’m petrified of these 5x5x9 steel cabled shadow boxes
That seem to move frantically up and down
Various floor to various floor
Like a hard drive read/write head
Frantically reading scattered fragmented pieces of data 
To assemble them into something meaningful: information
These two elevators only seem to piece together my solitude
And I still have yet to find meaning in my own mortality
In November 2013 I finally scrounged through my fragmented scattered sentiments
To assemble them into something meaningful: courage
The afternoons darken so early
I returned from work
Entered the foyer of my apartment building
And I pressed the elevator’s “summon” button
If I wear a religious man I would have held a cross before pushing it
Instead I held my crotch…
Not in a sexual way but more as a means of protection
Yet… I’m pretty sure if ghosts came billowing out of the elevator
Like soccer fans from a stadium
I somehow doubt that flesh could adequately guard flesh
And I think my reproductive capability would be the least of my worries
I usually take the stairs…
There was a slight “whirring” noise for about 5 seconds before it arrived
Enough time for me to rethink my decision
Enough time for me to wonder where ghosts come from
Enough time for me to question why ghosts would come and go so often
Whether the ghost world has a stable economy
Maybe their currency features the faces of living people
Maybe ghosts have jobs to go to
Widowed spouses to see
And aborted babies to feed
 

Then the doors opened…
I stepped inside the steel cabled shadow box to the strong scent of women’s perfume
The scent was so encumbering it was almost erogenous
I pressed the number “7” and reached my floor in record time
The next day I repeated the same steps
I stepped inside and this time there was a scent of Chinese food
The next day there was a scent of garlic
The next a scent of… somewhat repugnant body odor
The next the elevator held heavy with men’s cologne
And so on and on this daily barrage of human fragrance 
And take out cuisine
Smelling scents of ghosts
Traces of their existence through mere olfactory sense
I stopped covering my crotch when “summoning” the elevator
I now prepped my scents of smell for what story could be pieced together
What the previous occupant was planning to do 
As they entered or departed from this building
I could not “see dead people” in chorus with the pop-cultured cliché
I could only smell them
Somehow smelling them was more of a comfort than a terror
Knowing that they too carried out their daily lives
They too had foods that provided comfort
They too had a routine that somehow kept them whole
Maybe the only reasons we fear death
Is due to the sudden change in routine