Mom found this poem while she was going through some things at her house. I have always had a tendency to bring life to inanimate objects and give them a personality, and this poem is the perfect example. I don't write much poetry anymore, and after reading this, I realize that perhaps most people are grateful. Except for Shel Silverstein, who would probably like this poem a little.
Where does the elevator go at night?
Does it sleep in a bed, wrapped up tight?
Does it get to rest after a busy day?
Does it every get to go outside to play?
And where does the elevator go at lunch?
Does it eat in the shaft, a quick little munch?
Does it get to relax for an hour or so?
Does it eat at all, or just go and go?
And where does the elevator go between runs?
Does it stop in the middle just to have fun?
Does it make us wait on purpose sometimes?
Does it ever wish it could see the sun shine?
(c) 1995 K. LaVera Hill
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