The Texture of Panic

The erratic bumps of drywall emboss my fingertips,
like the pips on the rotating drum inside a music box;
the smooth steel of the elevator’s walls
suffuses my pressed palm;
the enamel of my teeth locks elbows –
like kids preparing for a game of red rover –
braced against my anxious grinding.
The shallow carpet admits my burrowing toes;
The air bores into my rattled lungs,
gently but earnestly forcing them to

do

their

job.

Eventually, the haze recedes,
but not before snatching
any and every weapon in sight,
like a belligerent retreating army
flinging shrapnel and dragging scythes,
relinquishing ground only after ensuring
that it will forever bear the scars
of its invasion.