Elevator

The first ones weren't used at all
for people, but for hoisting animals
up a level—in Archimedes' time,
one cab could carry the weight of two
lions. Bales of hay, lumber, stone 
from quarries. Massive in its design, 
the Colosseum supposedly had 25
working elevators, though that isn't
what they were called back in the day.
An English architect in Liverpool
installed the first paternosters,
passenger elevators consisting 
of open compartments people 
could step in and out of, 
as they looped slowly up 
and down a system resembling 
a rosary chain inside a building.
The view from an outside 
elevator can be stunning, now
that it's ubiquitous to modern 
urban life—326 meters up a cliff 
face in Zhangjiajie National Park, or
even just 12 storeys above the atrium
of the Hyatt Terraces Hotel in Baguio
before an earthquake in 1990 
shuffled it like a deck of cards.
From where I sit, head back and hazy,
mouth open in the treatment chair, 
I hear the oral surgeon ask 
his assistant to hand him the tooth 
elevator and forceps #3; then
he proceeds to crank the offending
molar out of its gummy bed. It gives,
but only after much effort. Finally
the ailing roots come out of their depth:
amazing how such a little thing sent
shock waves of pain through 
every part of the interior.