It put her in her grave, it did
This drive to automate;
It never should have come to this
But that's the hand of fate.
She haunts the mailroom yet. I know!
I work the graveyard shift.
And often in the wee small hours
I'll hear old Annie Grift.
I hear her walking up and down
the halls, when no one's there
And belts fly off the new machine.
It's Annie Grift. I swear!
She died right yonder, sitting up
Her eyes, a flinty green
Still staring, sightless
At her nemesis--that damn machine.
The new machine's not difficult
The job's not hard to do.
But Annie harbored deep mistrust
Of everything that's new.
You see, she never was the sort
To handle change with grace;
She hated it, you understand,
And now she haunts this place.
Just little stuff. Not scary like,
But still--I'd like to know
Why she can't rest like others do.
Why can't she just let go?
I prob'ly shouldn't oughta said
That stuff about new tricks
And older dogs--you know the line.
She's getting in her licks.
Or maybe it's that she's come 'round
And now she wants to learn!
Yeah. Right. And I'm a millionaire
With lots of cash to burn.
Well, I just settle in at night
And work the graveyard shift.
I sort the mail when it comes in
And talk to Annie Grift.
I'm Mike in Tucson, your preferred Tucson, AZ mortgage lender
Poem ©Michael W. Jones April 17, 1995