No I.D., No Entry

-in memory of my Uncle Rudy, a security guard

He is the most respectful man in the building.
He politely greets every man and woman,
either in camisa de chino or in Armani suits.
He opens the door for them. He does not sport
a moustache or ponytail. In his job, they are a taboo.
On the chest of his blue uniform, there are insignias.
On the right, his agency; on the left, his name,
which is at times covered by a walkie-talkie.
He is neither a soldier nor a police officer.
Yet he has a sidearm, with dozens of reserved bullets
on his belt. His .38 caliber pistol is silvery shiny.
But I have not yet pulled its trigger off, he says.
He does not even know whether it is functional,
enough for him to tell me it is made by Smith and Wiggle.