This poem came from Roy Jacobstein, a public health physician on the faculty of the UNC School of Public Health in Chapel Hill. It first appeared in "The Gettysburg Review," and he hopes it will be included in his next book of poetry, "Fuchsia in Cambodia."
How to Thrive in the Office Cube
Make peace
with the space
you're dealt, be
a beacon of equanimity
and competence,
set out
the photographs
of Dad, the dog,
the day
you sailed
the blue bay.
With respect
to your voice, don't
lower it
more than two octaves,
though it will
behoove you
to call
your new lover
from a private phone.
And instead,
should he
call you, say
"Mon ange,
your eyes are
the glowing coals
in the blast furnace
that is my heart,"
you must respond
coolly
with "Yes,
Steve, the report
is coming along fine
and will be available
for your perusal
by COB today."
Such dispassion
has useful spill-
over: the dry cleaner
will give you the discount
even though you forgot
the coupon.
The mechanic notorious
for gouging
his customers
will fear you
know something
and not overcharge.
Your landlord will promptly
repair the heat pump.
And your lover,
who may
or may not be
Steve, will take
your demeanor for
the deep still ardor
he has been meant
to unlock all his life,
beginning with dinner
at the little
Turkish place
where he will order
meze and raku
and ask you
"Are you always
this cool?"
This poem is from Judith Durnbaugh, a retiree who lives in Holly Springs. Durnbaugh, 68, said she was inspired by a former co-worker in Florida who was always sad that he never got to do what he wanted as a career. He always ate apples and watched the clock, she says.
Study of a man working
He says hello quietly,
Takes a quick look at his watch,
Aware that time is passing him by ...
Then he shrugs his frail shoulders --
Sighing a soft sigh --
Shuffles to a far corner and
Dutifully sits down at his desk.
Beginning the day, in his perfunctory way,
Any enthusiasm quickly waning away --
He works in a mechanical dream --
As he watches his watch
After a phone call or two --
Just before noon --
And shortly afterwards too.
Tediously he works
Through the long afternoon,
Same of voice, tone, and sound --
Going around on a Sampson's treadmill,
Feeling the gap,
A hollow unfulfilled man
Lost in the trap ...
Not quite retired, too much life in him yet,
But still searching within the humdrum
For something he never did get ...
Sometimes he eats apples,
Sometimes he drinks tea,
And sometimes he takes the time
To even speak to me ...
But always he watches his watch
For it tells him what to do
Like now --
As he places his pencils neatly away ...
Rocking slowly on his heels,
He stands by the door --
A far away look in his eyes,
Anxious to leave,
And go home to rest ...
Feeling this failure,
That he's not done his best.