New York Stenographer,1942 Poem by Sonny Rainshine

On her desk reposes a vase
filled not with flowers
but with exquisitely sharpened pencils,
points up, a menacing porcupine,
with stark gray quills.

A lined steno pad,
flipped to a fresh page,
lies serenely on the spotless blotter,
waiting, thirsty to capture
the baroque swirls and loops
of her immaculate shorthand.

With perfect poise
and dignified demeanor,
she plucks a # 2 from its holy ark
and applies its tapered point
to her left index finger
until the pressure releases the bitterness
and disappointment from her face
and replaces it with pain.

Mercifully, the intercom buzzes
like enraged cicadas
railing at the twilight.
The white ruled pad knows its purpose,
lies ready to serve.
This thought, and this alone,
will get her through the day.