The Union Man, The Profiteer, and The Poet
Divisions in a Steel Town
Between his finger and his thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Not a Caldo Lance, a welding rod,
A grinding tool or drill, but a pen rapping against the clipboard.
A pen to hammer out the creases
Of men’s existence,
The beating heart of a thousand striking workers.
My father marched with them once.
Now they march against him.
We once appeared on television together,
Union Man, Profiteer and Poet,
Except he was not a Profiteer then.
And I was yet to find my voice.
Three generations in complete togetherness.
Ostensibly at least.
Between his finger and his thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun,
Poised to fire bullets marked P45
Into the same beating heart as before.
A pen to hammer out the creases
Of further employment.
The beating heart of a soulless corporate entity.
Once I marched with my father
Now I march against him.
And the Union Man has gone.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun
Which fires paper augury to my father’s eyes,
The poetry of crestfallen marchers;
His allies from long ago.
A pen to hammer out the creases
Of a fair redundancy.
The beating heart of a dying industry.
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