by Nancy Snipper
The Globe reporter sweeps out of the office
Heaping his papers and brief and himself
into the car.
Encased like a king or a criminal
In some snarling new auto
Or a mole-hole machine
Pocked with depressions
From on the job pressure
and control
Getting out of control
On the expressways and
streets of Toronto -
Avenues to stories
Printed publicly on paper
Or privately on chrome,
He rides home.
And then the women
Who keep company with
sewing machines
In Spadina Street factories
Form into bundles
As they
hurdle themselves
Over the
steep steps of the bus
Laughing and chatting
And busily buzzing
About the day's events
Now past,
To their friends.
Fumbling through the pocket
Her hand touches the four
comers
Of the tiny ticket
Pink,
Her mouth draws a smile
On her full foreign face
Silent,
She stares at this piece of
pass paper
Before parting with it,
As if she were grateful to it
And happy in her daily
freedoms
Content to laugh and cry
and chatter
About the day and what
happened
And still wistful and
wondering
About what will happen
Even though she always knows.
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