Contenders

She's working nights
at the hospital
and I've been laid off
for two months
so what better place to be
than her room in the city?

I've already walked her to work
at seven this evening; now I'm
visiting her wing at two in the morning
since there's not much else to do
alone in her queen-size bed but read
and my man's going through a slump
that I don't feel like dealing with at the moment.

I'm in the elevator on my way up
to her floor. The old Hispanic security guard
standing at the opposite corner of the chrome affair
is staring at me politely with an innocent grin
that has me wondering why.
My reflection warrants no such welcome:
my black wool coat zipped to the throat, thick
brown beard and black wool watchman's cap
make me look like a wayward sailor
or angry cartoon henchman--
not the type to be studied and made light of
in a dangerously secluded public place
like an elevator. Confusion overtakes me
and then he clears his throat.

I have a hard time understanding him at first.
He's obviously spent most of his life
on whatever Caribbean island he hails from
and has not bothered to master the language.
All I can gather from his broken English at first
is that he's quite foolishly happy to see me.
The white hairs highlighting his gentle moustache
and eyebrows twitch with enthusiasm.
It's enough to make The Man in Black
ditch the chipped shoulder and listen a little harder.

"You look exactly like an old friend of mine, Manuel Garcia.
He was my sparring partner when I used to box.
I haven't seen him in forty years. Exactly like him...
It warms my heart."

"Yeah?" I ask inconclusively, still trying to decipher
how to appropriately respond to this stranded stranger
at two in the morning in a city that falsely claims not to sleep.

My sunken chestnut eyes find themselves
in the polished steel wall of the elevator.
They're ashamed for not knowing what else to say to this man
who clearly yearns for words that won't be coming.

"Have a good night," I mutter unaffectedly.
It's a cop-out, but my floor's arrived;
or rather, I've arrived at her floor.

He's too busy smiling at a memory to answer my arbitrary words.
Our chance meeting has made his night, no thanks to me.
Somewhere in a wooden box barely buried by Atlantic sand
Manuel Garcia's skull is smiling back.