Riding My Moods
Jane Ellen Glasser
 
 
            down creaky stairs to an unlit space;
up streets lacquered in sunlight;
            down ice-slicked sinkholes without pitons;
up on a balloon’s brief tour of mountains; 
            down the drain waiting for a finger’s flick; 
up an escalator in the high rise of oblivion;
            down thoughts like prayers on a plummeting jet;
up like the hallelujahs of fireworks;
            down on a winch lowering a casket;
 
or sometimes just going nowhere on a slow train through flatlands.