Unemployment

 

 

Sixty years ago,

a typesettter,

loved linotype

smells of hot lead,

click-clack of letters

falling into line.

Lines into blocks,

Blocks into pages.

Each day

he read his paper,

letter by letter,

words spelled right

giving news to the world.

Sick or well

he struggled to work

owed it to his boss,

owed it to his readers

owed it to his family.

 

A machine replaced him.

He couldn’t understand

what he’s done wrong or

why his wife had to

work at Woolworth’s

straightening yarn and lipsticks.

 

Downsized,

Americans say today.

Thousands of miniature people

hiding under leaves

sitting on mushrooms

ducking birds of prey

less dangerous than

full-sized accountants.

The downsized wait

to be full sized again

while shareholders smile.

 

 

The English aren’t downsized.

They are made redundant.

The du dant beat

of the word

is unnecessary

as they’ve become

to the work force.

They aren’t redundant

to families

to banks

who mortgage their homes

and hold the balance of

VISA and MasterCard,

being told they

need these things

by the same people who’ve

made them redundant.

 

The French word is pretty.

Chômge. Show Marge.

As if Marge

needs to be shown

what life is like

without the respect

a paycheck brings.

She knows.