THE TRIB
One college summer,
I was a copyboy at the Trib,
aka, the New York Herald Tribune,
delivering mail, proofs and trays of type.
Words were the unit of measure
which we moved from floor to floor
around the clock,
again and again.
Its nameless reporters were better writers
than at other papers.
They only had typewriters, paper and erasers.
The floor was always covered with paper
which crinkled as you walked.
There were only a few women writers
and they kept their pencils in their hair.
Men wore hats and vested suits
and jammed their pencils behind their ears.
Everyone smoked, and some chomped on cigars.
Everywhere the modulated din
only accentuated the haze.
It was hot and smelly as a subway car.