The Union Man, The Profiteer, and The Poet

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.