A Big Man in a Little Town.

He had more medals than I did:
outside the Gulf Pearl, Bahrain,
his uniform of damson flannel
was off-set by his gilt-y braid.

With white gloves and alabaster dentures
against a cocoa-butter skin,
he smiled as hard, when letting me out,
as he frowned when I forced my way in.

You had to bypass him to enter,
to get to your Happy Hour:
Filipino bands played the muzak
while Goans would tend the bar.

But you know, he was damned important,
respected by one and all:
the doorman at the six-star hotel
stood less than three feet tall.