I need a title please!

You are in elevator 41463

and you are going down

and you think about what he said

the last time he pulled himself out of you,

how your name slid off his tongue

and onto the peak of your throat

and beaded there, hot, still, throbbing.

You put your hand to your mouth

and you catch yourself behind a man

in a dark suit, his feet shoulder width apart.

You are both going down.

You imagine his body

pieced together, pinned

in the black dark of a box.

The man steps off and you

are alone and going down.

You remember the lentil soup,

dark wood, your mother’s coffee.

Sometimes you think you understand,

but his eyes were half shut

and it was a such short fight.

The doors open and two women step on.

They are talking about their children,

and you see a pit of bodies

light as breadcrumbs beneath a black soil.

The numbers flash above you,

you swallow, loud and thick,

and the three of you are going down.

They stop talking,

and you think about his socks

balled beneath the bed,

the screen door shutting after him,

the feeling of an entire day,

and suddenly you feel bloodless,

the weight of you like a wooden bucket going down.

When you are alone again

you sidle up beside yourself

but you can’t bring yourself to speak

anything but the names of things.

Dirt, cedar, ditch.

You smell a second person in the heat.

You both are going down.