My father worked by writing words
before our age of cut and paste,
computers and the world wide web.
Hot metal presses processed him
and all he wrote, which he then left
to artisans to justify for readers
of the latest Late Edition, satisfied
that he had made them all he could,
dissatisfied that time did not permit
re-statement before those deadlines
hit the streets, his work troubling him.
My father’s words had clever ways,
now and again eluding every effort
to tame them through his hard labour
of breaking stories that could capture
flagging interests in bored commuters
crammed inside old trains and buses,
heaving with humanity heading home
at the end of dull and ordinary days,
looking for the answers to six across
or twelve down or being disappointed
at tonight’s television or not laughing
with the cartoon strip characters and
much too tired to care for columnists.
.
