An unfortunately-named file attachment carries with it a world of connotations in Ann Clark’s poem about a résumé and aging.
—
Dad’s Résumé
When the personnel manager clicks
on the file attached to the email,
she already knows the applicant isn’t
tech savvy, will be in that uncomfortable
age bracket, too young to retire, too
old for fresh youthful hire.
The gap’s obvious as missing front teeth
after a brawl, a 3 year scar of down-sizing
or company collapse.
She thinks of her own father, hanging
on by fingernails after the fifth company
restructuring or reorganization and
realignment, ponders Dad’s Resume,
the solid state college education, the MBA
and Phi Gamma Sig key, regional affiliations,
awards, recognitions.
The kind of man who has everything framed,
used to have an ordered display in his office
with pictures of the wife and kids, a mounted
trophy bass,but now the certificates
are stacked in a cardboard mover’s box
in a closet behind the green and red plastic tote
that holds the family’s Christmas ornaments.
He wouldn’t have taken unemployment
lying down, she guesses. Her dad wouldn’t.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he tells her, “Your old
man still has a few tricks up his sleeve.”
The sleeves of his Oxford cotton shirts, neatly pressed,
are always rolled carefully just below the elbow
to show that he is there to work and work hard,
and her dad still believes in the power tie.
After three years, has the man from Dad’s Résumé
stopped wearing ties and business shirts?
The manager can see him puttering about in sweat pants,
t-shirts, his daughter urging him to look for jobs, just look.
“Ah, what’s the point?” he might have said, might not know
he’s even applied for this position.
Still, after three years, he might have
gone to his girl, pride choked down, said,
“Honey, I gotta admit, I’m new at this game.
Can you help your old man out?” and asked
her to format a document, with an email attachment.
Had a secretary in his old life, he’s old school,
not his fault his daughter gave the file
an inopportune name.
He’ll be drinking coffee and reading Help Wanted ads
or slouching on a sofa and channel-surfing,
maybe not even awake, still burrowed
under the covers, putting off the moment of consciousness,
but the references are good, work experience what’s required.
Her hand hovers over the mouse; can set up an appointment
for next week. The printer sighs and clicks.
The manager knows if the one dad shows up,
he’ll wear an Oxford shirt, a power tie.
As soon as the interview begins, he’ll take off his jacket,
roll up his sleeves, just below the elbows,
to show he’s ready to work,
that he means business.
***
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