From an alley of open doors
Into a compartment of closed doors and ink wells
All you saw before entering trails
in sensory traces and stops at the stoop.
You, a man with no name, walk into a room with no people
anticipating the pushing of a button:
compelling the singing, or wanking of a bell or buzzer.
The outside door had no lock,
the inside tells no reason why it would need one
And there is no smell to speak of.
Maybe that’s telling.
If a picture’s worth so many words
a place must be worth millions;
Perhaps this newsroom is without readers;
facing stagnation and eventual extinction
There is barely any air where you stand
and you can quite literally hear your blood course
in this anechoic chamber.
The silence seems like it’s listening to the other side of the door
And there must be a bustle on the other side.
Every movie you’ve ever seen having a newsroom,
including His Girl Friday
-the flick your mother forced you to watch on your layoff-
depicts the unsound, unsealed offices and cacophony.
You’ve written articles, essays, ads, and poetry,
promotionals, leaflets, handouts, synopses;
and wouldn’t you like to slide in an envelope under that door
and have a look at what your life could be, rather than
walk through it when the bell rings, wanks, or buzzes?
It’s uncomfortable, paperboy
Will you join it?
The tearing, scrounging man-machine;
the system of shambles and kerosene lamps-
Parchment packers, ink fingers, typewriters,
paper eaters, lemon-sippers, and doormats.
Which side of the door shall you be on?
You know that the walking through that door
and the shaking of hands,
handing over the portfolio under your arm
May result in:
"Hank Andover- Newspaper Writer and Author of Books"
Mr. Andover, please come in.
"Anechoic Chamber (Hank Andover: Newspaper Writer and Author of Books)" by Nina Ricci ©2015 All Rights Reserved