Poems by Zachary Chartkoff, Sam Mills, Robert Rentschler, Ruelaine Stokes
Not so much a review as a conveyance for your consideration. I know Mr. Mills, and have published or reposted one of his earlier free verses here in the form of a guest special interest writing, aka Donut Hole: The Editorial Department. Sam and I worked in the same editing and writing group for the company once known as Electronic Data Systems—then after the General Motors severance, simply EDS—owned and run by the self-styled brilliant entrepreneur and captain of industry, Ross Perot. This was, for me, in the late 1980s. Sam predated me a couple of years at the corporate communications beach head.
And I’m a huge fan of both Sam the Man and Sam the Poet. He writes as I like to imagine the world, deftly and with a eye sensitive to the living-breathing, common part of us all. After we left EDS, we kept in touch, I dropping in, from time to time, to a convenient establishment on his end of town serving adult beverages. In fact, I believe he made available this booklet to me for a reduced price or in return for buying him a drink. These were the days before the convenience and print-on-demand of Createspace came to independent publishing… and I recall how our barmaid, who had become a good friend of Sam’s through several sessions of good-natured banter, oohed and ahhed when he bestowed a copy on her. Continue reading
A Poem by Sam Mills
2008 May 06
Copyright © Sam Mills
Rewritten for the Gathering at Copper Canyon, Southfield, Michigan
From November 10, 1986
It’s 4:32 in the afternoon, and
the women of the editorial department
are thinking of something other than work.
Each in the privacy of her small work cubicle
—on an isle of 20 cubicles
in a block of sixty cubicles—
each kicks back, reaching for the bottom drawer
and a small bottle, an ancient scent,
oil of whiteout, perhaps, or
attar of pink eraser.
I am the new employee,
the new boy on the aisle,
the only male in the department.
I am young, and this
is my first corporate job.
I have nothing in my bottom drawer yet.
I am not used to the stuffy air
that forms late in the afternoon in these cubes,
but I can hear how the sound of keyboards being tapped
gradually tapers off to nothing.
My coworkers begin to lean back
in their chairs.
Someone closes the Chicago Manual of Style.
Another stares at the computer monitor and lets out
some dreamy sigh that lowers to an almost inaudible moan.
Someone else stands up and stretches,
that long biped feline stretch.
No words spoken, just that afternoon silence
that spreads down the aisles and over
the short fabric walls and I can sense
each woman is linking up to the sensation.
The woman in the next cube takes a deep breath,
holds it, and I can hear her let it go slowly as I realize
the whole department is in some sort of editorial lacuna,
a work stoppage that doesn’t require a union or shop steward,
just something more primary, more primal.
I look again in the bottom drawer of my cubicle’s desk
and realize whatever cologne I put in there,
it will never work.
[rewrite of November 10, 1986]