Hi,
I've been workshopping poems from my relationship MS on Met for a few weeks and now I'm taking time to sort out the order and put things together. This morning I wrote what's possibly the second poem in the series and I'm just going to post 1 and 2 to see how they look together. Happy to receive feedback from poets with experience of MS-ing. It's been mostly pent so far, but I'll try anything really
Induction
I leave the house at 9. I'm due to start
at half-past, and I want to take my time.
I'm nervous, but the springtime sun is out
and Mum is in my head.
You'll be just fine!
With every step, I try to leave behind
the job I've left. The bastard boss from Hell:
the silly sexist stuff, the endless jibes,
the constant casting me as Stupid Girl.
I'm here. "Hel
lo!" It's Janet, from HR.
"You
do look smart," she says. I'm in my suit;
I wore it for my interview in March.
She offers coffee, gestures, "Come on through!"
We sit and chat again about the job:
a secretary in Comp/Commercial Dept
for Wilfred Featherstone. I've met my boss
and like him quite a lot: he’s old-school gent.
I sign some forms. I'm bandaged round my wrists
and Janet notices. "Not good today?"
I say it's only morning achiness,
take off the Tubigrip. She sighs. "So brave!"
Next up, the meet and greet. We head upstairs
to Comp/Commercial; Wilfred shakes my hand.
And then a blur of lawyers, secretaries,
through six departments; Ads, the numbers man.
"That's it!" says Janet. "No, not quite." A voice
behind us makes us jump. "Oh,
you," she scolds.
I turn and meet his gaze and think,
You're nice.
We're introduced. He smiles. The world is gold.
- - -
AC/FT
Day 4, and Wilfred's off. He's got the flu.
"Well,
man flu." Janet chuckles, and rolls her eyes.
I'll have to Message All, say I've got room
for helping out. She thinks the Probate guys
might snap me up, but no. The first response
is
him, with "Help required, FT." I smile.
My wrists ache, but I take the bandages off
while on my way. Perhaps I'll have to file?
I'm right. A pile of post lies on his desk;
his secretary's late again. Car woes.
"Her husband runs her ragged sometimes," he says
and sighs. I wonder just how much he knows,
but focus on the task. We talk a lot;
he liked the Classics Clubnights on my CV.
I laugh and slink from desk to cabinet
and back. I like the way he watches me.
- - -
Thanks to John Isbell, whose AC/DC post on Poemusicals inspired the title of the second poem. I'm not sure whether my usage will be clear to those who haven't worked in an office, though 🤔