“When Press This Button ...”
June 20 2016


I can just  imagine
the earnest young man
in the standard garb
of white dress-shirt,  dark pressed pants
hunched over a desk in a Chinese factory. 
Papers are scattered, dictionaries stacked
as he peers intently down,
one finger adjusting
the badly smudged glasses
slipping down his nose.
Each letter, meticulously composed,
like that queen bee
who was teacher’s pet.

Smooth enough
until the grammar clangs, a  word clunks.
Instruction-manual English,
which sounds so exact, polite
sure of itself
but is incomprehensible.

I know he meant well,
this earnest young  man
who can ask directions
order a hamburger
say have a nice day
while beaming and bowing
to mystified strangers,
but has never carried on
an actual conversation.

His work has an undeniable charm,
like letters home from camp
you find in a sticky drawer in your  mother’s small  kitchen
and read as a 40 year old
but is hardly of help.

Perhaps this is the future of language
or even its past.
Because politicians have been at it for years,
mouthing word after word
so it sounds like English
but leaves you scratching your head.

In the East, there is a culture of  deference, reticence
the suppression of self.
So if he and I  met
I know how impolite it would be 
to criticize his work.
I would simply smile, and bow my head,
thanking him
for his considerable skill.



Some sort of alchemy must have occurred when a  preoccupation with Donald Trump combined with  my new air conditioner’s instruction manual to gave rise to this odd little poem. 

Whenever I read this sort of stilted English, I always get the sense of earnestness conscientiousness this young man personifies.  And I also feel as if it’s a glimpse into a future world where all language is not only universal, but utilitarian:  a kind of pastiche/creole/ pidgin that makes a kind of rough sense, but has no elegance or nuance. 

The ending alludes to the intersection of cultures. I find the narrator very likeable here:  he brings a wry and generous humour to an annoying circumstance.

The poem achieves the kind of conversational tone to which I often aspire. It often sounds like a prose poem, despite the line breaks. I think this works particularly well with the bemused persona of the narrator, the dailiness of the theme. Although I suspect I may have gotten a little carried away in the opening stanza, as if this were a novel, and descriptions could go on and on.   Apparently, I still lack the discipline to trust the reader to fill in the fine detail!