The Doorman Poem by Phillip Alan Green

Always late for eyes to look at fresh trouble,
Throat dry from repetitive thinking,
Good evening to Sir and Madam,
But coudn't give a damn for those repetitive drinkers.

Stood stock still, unnoticed they pass,
Dressed like chameleon, blended to surroundings,
Dark and cosy, slightly insane, see that Billy's in again,
With those troubles he tries so hard to drown.

An innocent nudge and unwelcome apology,
Voices raise above the pride, time to work to get it out,
Sensless preaching, so hate kicks in to remove the doubt,
Not his fault, never his fault once outside.

Threats issued to black closed door, poor door,
Never thanks for what he does,
Reason enough for indifference,
Never makes any sense as he moves back into the club.

Repeating this several times a night,
Threats swirling to his wife and child,
Take a lift because for slashed tyres,
Do you, can you understand why he never smiles.