THE DOORMEN

Maroon-red blazers,
The doormen wear
In the lobby of this building
Where I live 19 floors above.

I pass before the tribunal
Of their faces
Whenever I go out
Or come home.

I try to make conversation
To overcome my embarrassment
Before these black men
Hired to baby-sit
The 164 units-of-us
Living in this tower.

When I return at night
The thought flies through my head,
"My Doorman's waiting up",
Like he's some kind of dorm-mom.

Of course, when I'm buzzed in,
It's a bored face
That dutifully mouths,
"Good evening, sir"
As I struggle to get past him
Without feeling guilty
About his low wages
And boring job.

"How do you get
Through the night?"
I ask one elderly,
Black-bereted sentinel
On the midnight-8AM shift.
"I reads and I nods,"
He tells me.

My aunt once
Spoke to me of
"Pickwickian syndrome",
An obscure reference to
A Dickens novel
I've never read,
To describe a doorman
In her building
Who scarcely ever
Left his seat.

I try to imagine
Looking forward
To wearing a red-maroon jacket
And buzzing open
A door for wealthy folks
Till the day I die.

These men have become
The arbiters of my conscience.
Every time I pass them,
I feel I must justify
My life to myself.

"Am I living my caring?"
I silently ask as I ride
Up, up. How, otherwise,
Do I deserve
This life of privilege
19 floors above the station
Of the doormen?

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