Of course she is not really ‘in’ the elevator
But elsewhere, her thoughts rising and falling, opening and closing
(The older passengers mere shadows, ephemeral, unreal)

Hers is an interior life, encapsulated, protected, but alone
Which is really the only life we live, the only terrain we trust
(The rest – our external life – mere artifice, role-playing, stagecraft)

And yet it must be so essential, this projection of activity, of progress
Getting on a floor, then off again, planning, meeting, conforming, doing
(A proof of something ‘happening’, a life tangible, even momentous)

And yet, as we know in our heart, it is not real, not really Us
More ontic, things to be seen and touched and defined, than Being
Something essential, antecedent, fundamental (as Heidegger insisted)
Or vast and perfect, knowable and obvious (as Descartes meditated)

– by MJB