Sample Poems by Kevin Walzer
Across
the Table
“You don’t seem to have a passion for your work.
You come in late, and you’re not the last to leave.
It’s just a job to you. We can’t afford
to have you punch the clock. You have to care.”
A lecture from the kid who hired me,
staring across the conference table. The King
of Skates. The dot-com guy who lured me
by promising excitement—and a fat raise.
He works much longer hours than me, that’s true.
He also takes long lunches with the other guys
to go play roller hockey—a macho sport.
He breaks noses and bloodies eyes with his stick.
Work hard, play hard. I’ll only use one yadda.
Who waits for him at home? His teacher wife
and the large, exuberant dog she brings to his cube
when picking him up Fridays for a weekend trip.
Who waits for me at home? My wife, who’s quit
her job to care for our toddler son. And bills
that multiply no matter what I make.
So I always work a second job at night—
teaching, freelance gigs, whatever pays.
I give up sleep to work. And yes, my tank is low
when the King of Skates greets me every day
with micromanagement. “Don’t do a thing
without my sign-off first.” And this jerk sinks
his teeth into my ass because I lack
passion? “I care about my work. Do you?
Do you just come to grab your check, and go?”
Well—yes. “That’s right. Of course it’s just a job.”
He looks at me, incredulous. “That’s true?
You’re not the guy I thought I hired, then.”
I stop. “I care about my job, it’s just…”
I don’t know how to explain myself to him.
I have a wife and son. A family.
And that’s the work I love—husband, father.
I live for them alone. There’s nothing else.
The rest is only what I do for pay.
Graduate, Defined
verb: to mark with degrees of measurement
At three, I walked into the newsroom, bleary.
But I felt great—my happiness ran deep;
I’d just received a doctoral degree
after only three hours of fitful sleep
earlier in the day, before my shift.
Just call me Doctor Kevin, I wanted to say.
My entire family had come, with smiles and gifts.
I beamed with pride. This was a wonderful day.
Turning the computer on, I felt a tap
on my back, a gravelly mutter: “We need to talk.”
Dennis’s voice always came like a slap,
my boss, the gruff copy chief. We walked
to the cramped conference room where I’d been hired.
He closed the door behind him. “Look, I know
you do your best, but you crawl. The newsroom’s wired
for speed, and we can’t afford to let you grow.
We have to let you go. Your final pay
is being sent to your home. You’ll have it soon.”
I thought of nothing to say but thanks, a way
of saving face, to leave without a swoon
or fists. I left, briefcase in hand, and found
a payphone near my car. I trembled and called
my wife, my mom and dad, who’d seen me bound
on stage to find this other end, this fall
from grace, completely into unemployment.
The graduate had graduated down
to what I faced: no job, my measurement
precise, a zero sum, an empty crown.
Patience
At four, Sheila’s checkout line has grown
back across the aisle. It hardly moves.
Everyone has come to pay at once.
She looks down at her watch, and sees the time.
“I have to go and get my son!” she cries.
The store’s manager passes by, intent
on emptying the other tills of cash
for the daily bank drop. “I’ll get to you
when your line’s finally down,” he calls to her.
She’s getting anxious, ringing frantically
and shoving clothes in bags. “I have to go,”
she mutters. “Daycare ends at four-thirty.”
She’s single, with no one else to get her son.
Her customer, a pregnant woman, asks,
“What’s wrong, honey?” Sheila begins to cry.
“I have to go. I have to get my son
and they won’t shut me down and let me leave.”
The customer looks at her. “Why not?”
The register beeps, printing up her receipt.
“Because I have to get through my line,”
she says. “Oh dear,” the pregnant woman sighs.
“That’s bad,” the customer behind her says.
“Hey, if you have to go and get your son,
then go! I really don’t mind waiting
for someone else to ring.” Sheila wails,
“But they won’t let me go!” At this, the line
begins to murmur. “Why can’t she go?”
someone says. “They should let her go.”
A mother calls, “Oh, sir! Please let her go
to get her son!” as the well-dressed manager
whizzes past. “We don’t mind the waiting.
She has to get her son.” He answers back,
“She can go when her line is down. We’re not allowed
to shut a register down when there’s a line.”
Now the customers begin to grow restless.
“Sir, we’ve said we’re willing to wait. Her son
is waiting, and he’s more important than us,”
a woman says. “I’m a mother too!”
Sheila’s ringing as fast as she can. The woman
grows angrier. “Sir, please close her down!”
The manager stops. “Sheila, keep ringing.”
Then: “Ma’am, store policy forbids
closing registers down. What if you
waited in line for fifteen minutes
and then someone stuck a register closed sign
in your face?” At this, the woman starts to yell.
“Hey, Suit, this is bullshit! You’re not a mother!
I’ve worked too many jobs like hers to deal
with shit like this. We’ve already said we’ll wait.”
In his double-breasted, French-cuffed suit,
the manager is speechless. Another woman
pipes in, “You better not fire that girl!”
Mr. Suit stammers: “I won’t fire her.
It’s just the policy I have to follow.”
Sheila rings the last batch of clothes
as the cursing woman snatches her receipt:
“I’m never shopping at this damn store again.
A place that treats its employees like this
doesn’t get my business!” The others mutter,
“Mm-hmm, that’s right, me too.” They head outside,
leaving their piles of merchandise behind.
Instructions for the Greeter
You’ll welcome shoppers to our clothing store.
That’s part of a greeter’s job. The other part:
to keep the clothes from going out the door.
Of course, you’re here to help the company score
some sales—you’re the friendly face of Save-Mart.
You’ll welcome shoppers to our clothing store,
but you’re also store security, a force
who watches like a predator that darts
to keep the clothes from going out the door—
you’ll check shopping bags, your eyes will bore
down at every beep, and you’ll keep out carts
as you welcome shoppers to our clothing store.
You’ll stress the rule of no returns, a chore;
the shoppers scowl as if you cut a fart.
But still the clothes keep going out the door;
our sales always top the year before.
We’re about to open now. So go and start
welcoming shoppers to our clothing store!
And keep the clothes from going out the door.