They Are People in a Line

They are simply people in a line.
Each one has his own elsewhere to be.
Their shoes have touched the grounds of clean and dirty
Places in this town, but now a sign—
An arrow—points them forward through a tall
And winnowing rotunda to be assessed
For what each hopes will be his own success
But is, in truth, something very small.
The stanchion where the velvet rope arrives
Does not care if one promotes his cuff links
Or one his do-rag, and does not know what fame
Each knows outside the line. Each must abide
Until his turn to answer in black ink:
What color are your eyes? What is your name?