DOORMAN
I am a doorman, so people talk to me.
They ask me when am I going to retire.
I tell them when I'm six feet under.
Oh, I get tired. Back gets to killing me,
Hands shake.
Still, when I'm laid off sick, time drags.
Not working, it's hard to think up things to fill the day.
Working's better.
Like they say,
Plenty of time to rest
When they put you in that long narrow box.
I'll lie plenty still then,
Unless
You have other plans for me,
Which I sure hope You do.
St. Peter's a fine gatekeeper, I'm sure,
But if he wants some time off
I've been a doorman forty-two years
And I like the work.
