When medieval villages
Were battered with the plague,
The cart stopped at a house
And neighbors, peeking fearfully
From behind their shutters
Would know another one of them
Had passed away.
 
And so in my work-a-day cubicle village
Along the low gray fabric walls
I saw the small push cart:
Tiny wheels, empty cardboard boxes
Parked in the hall next to an office
And instantly I knew that it had come
To claim another victim.

She was pleasant enough,
One of the new graduates.
She was always at her desk
And always busy,
Her focus on work was mixed with a smile,
A frequent laugh,
And goofy posters on her wall.
She worked to make her place,
Took assignments as they came,
Did them as best she could.

On Friday when the cuts were made
There was no published list,
No announcement,
But at 10 O’clock the cart was there.
The boxes held her posters and some sundries.
We gathered in the hallway,
And some of us spoke awkward words
As supervisors led her to the door.

We all thought that Harold
Would be on the layoff list.

 But the carts had come and gone
And Harold was still there,
Sitting motionless,
A slight smile on his face,
Another mortgage payment he could make,
Another day he didn’t have
To tell his wife the news.

 And we all talked about it.
How unusual, but yes,
With all the folks that got the axe
Somehow he was spared.

 And Work went on.

 And then as we returned from lunch
Down at the far end of the hall
We saw the cart head for the door
And Harold too was gone.

 

@ F X Kearns 2009