The Old Butter Tub
Thirty-seven yearsOf stores,
Of working
With bores:
Bits of lifeless
Plastic and metal
With never a hint
Of the smell of a petal
Took him to nearly sixty-four
And a sigh away
From retirement.
He didn't get a proper goodbye away;
Redundant,
Not required,
No smiling send-off
To the deservedly tired.
Never married
So no home-coming sharer;
A lone alone male –
Not even a neighbourly carer.
I didn't know his last name.
He was a holder of papers,
Not one-of-the-lads
In Xmas capers
Or in work-fun
E-mails –
He was even never noticed
By females
Who themselves
Would be the butt of jokes
Amongst the less-kindly
Of blokes.
He put a plastic tub
On my desk as he quietly
Walked past for the last time:
Typically unriotly,
It just shied
Its way from grubby hands:
It was full of his collection
Of paper-clips and rubber bands.
13:07, Mon. 11/05/2009.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 908 times
Written on 2009-06-25 at 14:07
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