First Job
by John Riley
I thought each day died inside the clock.
Punching in at seven sharp to stand
eight hours to listen to a turret lathe clack.
Eating a roach coach sandwich and reading my stained
—Paris spring, matadors, whiskey—
and greasy copy of A Moveable Feast.
“Preacher Charlie” with his daily chant:
“You won't be saved by a drunken sinner's book.”
The office girl with her micro-mini skirts
who stopped each day to flirt and spin a peek
of blue or white or magical pink panties.
The stamping press quaking the concrete blocks.
A winter morning the pigeons floated out
of the roof's shadow, above the welder's sparks.
Punching in at seven sharp to stand
eight hours to listen to a turret lathe clack.
Eating a roach coach sandwich and reading my stained
—Paris spring, matadors, whiskey—
and greasy copy of A Moveable Feast.
“Preacher Charlie” with his daily chant:
“You won't be saved by a drunken sinner's book.”
The office girl with her micro-mini skirts
who stopped each day to flirt and spin a peek
of blue or white or magical pink panties.
The stamping press quaking the concrete blocks.
A winter morning the pigeons floated out
of the roof's shadow, above the welder's sparks.
Great capture-"each day died inside the clock."*
The title elevates the poem with context. Together, the text renders well that youthful disappointment of "you mean I have to go to work everyday and I'm not going to like it?"
The office girl is too familiar effect on me - is there a sharper image, a more defamiliarized detail than her panties?
"Roach coach sandwich" really rings - great phrase. It's subordinate to "Eating a ..." by being it's direct object. Would it be stronger if it were more independent?
"A winter morning the pigeons floated out / of the roof's shadow, above the welder's sparks."
Unfolds cinematically. Very fine.
Submit, John.
said the pink-pantied one,
wearing leather and brandishing a whip.
Very very good poem, John.
Strong piece - Especially connect with the stanza 2. *
Last two lines like a haiku. Love the contrast. Bright, shining moments in the workaday world. I'd give it ten stars if I could.
Superb, John. You have the ear for language and the ability to string it into evocative, powerful, vivid lines and make a whole, a world in cameo.
Great portrait of life in a dead job . fv*
Beautifully tight and strong.
Ah, poetry of flesh and bone. Very nice.
Reminded me of my summer at Owens-Illinois' bottling plant in New Jersey. Sometimes, we can find beauty in the mundane.*
Thanks, everyone for the nice comments. I've only written a few semi-metrical sonnets.
Awesome first line. Wonderful detail throughout. (On my first job I read Dostoevski, with similar longing). *
I have to agree about that first line. Exquisite. A novel of meaning in eight words. Excellent lead to a equally excellent snapshot of life.
A great snapshot of reality. Those two closing lines give us hope.
*, John. Been there, too . But I could never catch the sense and the sound as you have with this fine piece. As I read it seemed I could look down and see the filings coated with cutting oil.
Lovely work
very nice, and the first line is a great hook.
Should've saved this for May Day. I like this a lot. I like the lilt of the language played against the drudgery of the work.
Great opening, John. I love the way this poem moves through the day and images. I like Steve Gowin's comment -- he's right on the money. *
Marvelous work here, John. *
Thanks, all for the great comments.