Sisyphus

The escalator broken again 
We climb the adjacent stairs 
In wingtips and houndstooth slacks. 
I peer into the guts of the silent machine. 
It is always the same guy, 
Crouched over, sweat on his face, 
Wielding a flashlight and cursing, 
Pushing the same stubborn rock 
Up the same hill. Maybe 
It wouldn’t be that bad; 
With any luck, your hill has some trees, 
A view of a lake. A breeze 
kicks up and you suck your lungs 
full of mountain air. Your arms 
have grown strong and the rock 
in your hands feels heavy, 
satisfying. It is permanent. 
Its weight reminds you of its path 
Down the face of the ridge, 
Rolling all the way to your feet. 
It could be a sculpture. 
There is already one in there, probably, 
Waiting for the right set of hands. 
Over lunch you wonder why 
The stone needs pushing anyway 
And you notice it is almost one o’clock 
And you need to get pushing again 
If you’re going to beat the traffic tonight 
And you feel your hands reaching for the flashlight,
Sweat on your face—cursing the escalator.