The Candlemaker’s Office
was sparsely filled.
The worn brass door knob —
a patina
countless hands
slipping over its surface,
polished and discolored
by each touch.
That oak door —
turning my wrist
lean into it
fighting the rub
door against frame
hearing single pane glass
rattle —
I’d
pushed
through.
His wall —
dirty darkened oak
framed a wall of glass
allowing The Candlemaker
to gaze
upon
people
machine
if he chose —
yet his view
on equal footing
not elevated
a humble oversight.
Flooring —
off-white asbestos
set in squares
dark from factory dirt
moved by the feet of workers.
A lone green metal desk —
flanked
by a single gray
metal file cabinet:
adding machine,
rotary phone,
worn desk blotter,
barometer,
a name plate,
should you not know who he was.
Jeremy Proehl’s poems have appeared in several anthologies and was recently mentioned in the August 2019 issue of The New Yorker. Proehl has attended the Dodge Poetry Festival, two Bread Loaf Writers’ Conferences, and the Lost Lake Writers’ Retreat