Nowhere on a Silver Elevator

An image crafted between the pages
of some sleazy magazine tossed
open the rusted door and let its rough
edges screech against a polished,
luxurious coupe.  

High-heels, fishnets, plaid miniskirt,
shirt, black and stretched
over the shoulder to reveal a hanging strap,
strode with a blank-eyed
dignity, oblivious, perhaps,

or uncaring,

past rows of rested vehicles
that sat, empty and forgotten,
like an undertaker's workshop
or a prefabricated neighborhood,

to a pair of silver
elevator doors
and left.