At the Pera Palace

he presses all the faded buttons.
He takes their photographs
while they arrange themselves
to look at ease, to fit into this past
perfect world, to seem as some
who had always seemed at ease,
even entitled in their comfort
seated on the elevator's leather.
He's an old toothless man
who appreciates the few dollars
to spirit them up to the sixth floor
and hold the relic while they look.
There's a lot to see in this hotel.
The elevator man has seen it.
Mata Hari. The fulsome Winston.
Agatha C who lost herself here
in the fumes of "Orient Express."
They hang on his little episodes
even when they begin to resent
the eccentric manners of guests.
But he leaves in a good mood
downstairs, for a quick hit
in the atmospheric bar
with its elegant striped chairs
where Bernhardt sat in state,
while they linger at the elevator
admiring its wrought iron cage,
wondering about Mr. Heavyweight
who could stink up this morning
with his Cubans. They like that
but the elevator man did not.
He said, regretfully, he did not
ask that guest to put them out.
It wasn't his place they agreed.