The Director's Resurrection.(Poem)

 
THE DIRECTOR'S RESURRECTION 
 
   Hist! 
 
   My grandfather, the coal carter, started a new business 
   in the house where his wife and nine children lived. 
 
   When he died, after an illness, his two sons 
   took over the business, 
 
   a wooden box factory, can you imagine? 
   My father, the younger, the Company Director. 
 
   My uncle, the elder, the Managing Director. 
   The family no longer lived on the premises. 
 
   My father took his ticket to be a saw doctor. And yes, 
   I've heard all the jokes about the saw doctor's daughter. 
 
   He'd come home of an evening, scattering sawdust, 
   with talk of pinus radiata and a queer sort of tree-- 
 
   forbeetoo. Say it quite slowly. 
   He'd spent the day with his head bent to the 
 
   incandescent shrieking of band saws and circular saws, 
   and his brother above him. Always above him. 
 
   I knew on the early starts when he was the only 
   one there, he threw crumbs for a mouse 
 
   that he swore was the same one, year after year. 
   I don't think so. 
 
   But of what did he think as he bent ...