MY DAD AT WORKmaking phone calls, jotting down quotes

phone cradled on the shoulder like a violin

scraping of soft lead on blank newsprint paper

clatter of the press in the background

clatter of typewriters, clatter of laughter

white shirt stained with the ink of a thousand pens

blue eyes blue as a proofreaders penciled in notes

nose, face, chin, long as a lazy afternoon

lines trailing down, curving round the mouth

deep creases, the kind that come from laughing 

as a habit, as a vocation, as a way of life

relaxed, sitting there talking into the phone 

sucking down information 

like black coffee on a smoke filled night