At the End of the Day

It was the end of the day,
the lift doors were closing,
the office commute began here.
I pulled my Portobello fur
scruff tight over my mini skirt
and yelled “hold the doors!”.

He stood with elegant manner
a long finger on the button.
“Which floor?” he asked politely
as I wished I could fall through it.
Harold Macmillan, for it was he,
my companion for four anxious floors,
benign at 18-year-old idiocy.

I was hardly Khrushchev or Kennedy
but he made me feel important nonetheless.
Gent-of-the-old-order,
he smiled as I blushed my farewell.
Nothing much said, but never forgotten.