I remember the brown hand of the black man
on the worn brass knob of the elevator crank
as he leveled off between floors.
Polident white of dentures,
old ivory whites of eyes,
licorice whiff of Sen-sen
as he smiled, pulled back the gated door.
I don't think they make Sen-sen anymore,
or elevator operators.
But I still see men with old ivory eyes.
The lost art
of leveling off between floors
gone the way of Sen-sen.
Elegance of old piano keys
passed down through blood, the eyes.