All day he takes notes
With handwriting
So beautiful it could be in
The Declaration of Independence.

Each time you pass his desk
You peek at his notepad.
On page thirty-one, he writes:
It’s two in the morning and the

Drunks, cheaters, dog walkers,
Partygoers, and serial killers
Come home to sleep.
I close my eyes without fear.

But now the sleepwalkers come out,
Riding the elevator downstairs
And venturing into the city to dally
In the middle of intersections

Where garbage trucks and cabs
Whiz past their mustaches and ponytails,
Tearing off strands of hair,
Pain unfelt in their dreams.

The doorman looks so normal,
But did you know he’s had affairs
With every woman on floor six?
They all crave the peninsulas of his sideburns,

So that’s why they spend so long
Checking empty mailboxes
In front of his throne.
He writes, on page twenty-eight:

I had affairs with all the women
On floor six. At four in the morning,
They asked me to drift to their bedrooms,
To light candles with my hot breath.

Their nipples, shaped like doorbells,
I rang until dawn
When I was dismissed
To high five the sunrise.