After the brief bivouac of Sunday,
their eyes, in the forced march of Monday to Saturday,
hoist the white flag, flutter in the snow-storm of paper,
haul it down and crack in the mid-sun of temper.

In the pause between the first draft and the carbon
they glimpse the smooth hours when they were children–
the ride in the ice-cart, the ice-man’s name,
the end of the route and the long walk home

The Stenographers – P.K. Page

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