John Grey, 2/22/2016

Current Occupation: Retired
Previous Occupation:  Financial Systems Analyst
Contact Information: Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Worked as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Coe Review, Abbey and Cemetery Moon with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Harbinger Asylum.

 

#

DEAD END JOB

 

What kind of job is this?

Obituary writer for a major metropolitan newspaper.

The phone rings.

Another woman breaking up over

her husband's final bout of cancer.

You can hear the black dress in her voice.

Then it's make sure you spell all the children's names correctly.

And Jake, the one who married that floozy,

and lives in California…list him last.

Brian…he was a clerk at an automobile dealership.

No, make that assistant accountant.

And "loved", no, "much loved",

no “very much loved."

And, "instead of flowers."

No, no. I love flowers.

Forget donations. The Cancer Society

has too much money as it is.

 

Really, what kind of job is this?

I'm bent over a keyboard, down in the tombs.

And yet, after bombardments of sympathy,

they appreciate my business-like voice and manner.

Besides, I don't know these people,

can't mourn along with strangers.

It's a job, like sports reporter.

Today's score; burials 10, cremations 7.

The coffin crew kicked a field goal in extra time.

So I listen to their teary spiel

then quote them price and word limit.

 

Then what kind of job is this?

Something to do with the price of a man,

the limit of what mere words can do.

#

TO A DROWNING MAN

 

Only five o'clock can save this man.

He is drowning in a sea of incoming emails

and overflowing in-box.

There's no use looking to his fellow workers.

They're flailing just as badly as he is.

 

The supervisor walks by.

His haughtiness

won't even toss a life-preserver.

Only the clock on the wall,

slow and antagonizing,

so duplicitous in his current situation,

can grasp his helpless body

and drag him back to shore.

 

Finally the rescue hour arrives.

He emerges from the depths

gasping for breath.

Then, accompanied by

a couple more of the saved,

he heads to local bar

for a little CPR.

 

By the time he can breathe freely again,

it's 8.30 in the morning

and the swirling, threatening ocean beckons.

At least it's payday.

A check floats his way –

a raft made out of paper.

#
WHAT I DO FOR A LIVING

 

At work, I'm not a poet.

I'm a grunt,

Seneca of the grindstone.

I'm just another worker,

cube, swivel chair,

chained to a computer.

 

And I get ordered about.

It's not at all like

the right word in the right place

being all down to me.

They say jump

and I'm a grasshopper.

They stay stand straight

and I'm chimney first class

but blowing no smoke.

 

Sure it's no way to make a living.

It's nasty. It's demeaning.

My sense of honor

will do anything for a pay-check.

 

It's twenty four hours

since the reading,

alone on stage,

the ears of the audience

in my narrow-fingered hands.

 

What a transition.

Now my audience is

Larry in Supply.

Or Martha in billing.

 

Need more paper, Larry.

What's this number mean. Martha.

Well at least they don't murmur

"Interesting."