The Stenographers – P.K. Page
After the brief bivouac of Sunday, their eyes, in the forced march of Monday to Saturday, hoist the white flag, flutter in the snow-storm of paper, haul it down and crack in the mid-sun of temper. In the pause between the first draft and the carbon they glimpse the smooth hours when they were children– the ride in the ice-cart, the ice-man’s name, the end…