The cold air of breaths
of dinosaurs in the hallway,
days of mints and lukewarm
coffee brewed the old-fashioned way,
me in my dark pants and white shirt,
tie as standard as stripes,
when company men still toured
the land, and screwdrivers and
wizardry spelled IBM,
when the secretary (not administrative assistant)
smiled at her boss hoping his wink-wink
would stop if he hit his head on the sharp edge
of open bookcase hutch or jumped out the window
when his boss called up about sales down
Ulf Kirchdorfer was born in Sweden and grew up in Texas. He has a book of poetry, Chewing Green Leaves, out from Lamar UP, and his work has been published in Tar River Poetry, Harvard Review, Blue Collar Review, and on Poetry Daily. He is an avid birder and photographer.
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