34
The Doorman
by Ivy Nguyen
The stride in your walk,
the sway in your hips.
Your head held to the sky,
the tip of your chin sharp as a knife.
I envy the way
you carelessly be.
I shamelessly wish
that could be me.
The stutter I mutter,
the trip in my walk.
My hair in tangles
and terrible knots.
The things i depict
when i see
a look in the mirror,
a spiteful me
You push, I pull.
If only I push, instead of hold doors
for people like you, who never care to say thank you.