.23) The Doormen Poem by Max Reif

Maroon-red blazers,
they make the doormen wear
in the lobby of this building
where I live,19 floors up.

I pass before the tribunal
of their faces
whenever I go out
or come back home,

make conversation
to overcome embarrassment
before these black men
hired to baby-sit
the 164 units-of-us
living in this tower.

'My doorman's waiting up' —
the thought flies through my head,
as if he's some dorm-mom,
as I come home at night.

Of course,
when I'm buzzed in,
it's a bored face
dutifully mouthing
'Good evening, sir'.
I struggle to get past him
without feeling guilt
for his low wages
or his boring job.

'How do you get
through the night? '
I ask one elderly,
black-bereted sentinel
on the midnight shift.
'I reads and I nods, '
he tells me.

I try to imagine
looking forward
to a maroon-red jacket
and buzzing open
a door for wealthy folks
until the day I die.

These men have become
arbiters of my conscience.
Every time I pass them
I try to justify my life,


silently contemplating
on the elevator: Am I
living my caring?

How else
could I deserve
this life of privilege,
19 floors above
the doormen?

(1998)