Clerk Poem by Shane Markie

All day he bends above tall books
Making neat lines with a sharp pen.
Sometimes he stops his work, and looks,
A trifle dazed, at other men
As old and grey and bent as he,
Hunched over, figuring endlessly.

He takes off gold-rimmed spectacles,
Carefully polishes away,
Puts them back on; absently pulls
The ends of a mustache, quite grey;
Takes pen, and with a little frown,
Resumes his writing figures down.

It would be pleasant to be old-
I sometimes think while watching him —
And sit upon a stool, and hold
A pen, and look with eyes quite dim
On figures written close and fine,
Column on column, line on line,

With little fear and little hope,
Too old for any keen desire,
N o more to doubt and fear and grope
Or in blind agony aspire
To hopeless heights; only to know
Dull figures in a stupid row.

To know that some time, by and by,
The final entry will be done,
The ink will stop, the pen be dry,
The ultimate trial balance won;
And then, with clamorous, blessed shock,
The last great gong ring five o' clock.