The Dignity of Ushers

Their authority did not unfold

from ironed white shirts and thin ties

or from the funereal seriousness that struck

their acne-splashed faces but because

they stood heir to our native faith in light.

So we followed the thin white waver

of beams they pointed down aisles

to seats we never thought of refusing.

It was the first job I wanted,

especially after birthday outings

far from home showed me the glowing

outfits worn by big-city ushers, their get-ups

a blend of doorman and military dictator,

as gaudy and fine as the plots

of movies my Saturdays were swallowed by.

None of us knew, as they took us

into the artificial light of the cinema,

that they walked the path of the pin setter,

the blacksmith or elevator operator,

professions reduced to curiosity

by wandering time. Only in the quick steps

of floor salesmen, the slim backs of hostesses

bringing us to our tables, do they remain,

the artful flutters of their flashlights lost

in dark we are left to find our own way through.