Pulp Poem of the Week

An old man dozed in the elevator,

on a ramshackle stool,

with a burst-out cushion under him.

His mouth was open,

his veined temples glistened in the weak light.

He wore a blue uniform that fitted him

the way a stall fits a horse.

Under that gray trousers with frayed cuffs,

white cotton socks and black kid shoes,

one of which was slit across a bunion.

On the stool he slept miserably,

waiting for a customer.

I went past him softly,

the clandestine air of the building prompting me,

found the fire door and pulled it open.

The stairs hadn’t been swept in a month.

Bums had slept on them, eaten on them,

left crusts and fragments of greasy newspaper,

matches, a gutted imitation-leather pocketbook.

In a shadowy angle against the scribbled wall

a pouched ring of pale rubber had fallen

and had not been disturbed.

A very nice building.

Raymond Chandler

The Big Sleep

1939