He would take me with him when I was a boy
before that was something people did,
the two of us riding the subway,
then walking a few blocks in those canyon-like streets
to the insurance company where he worked.
There, he would set me free to wander
up and down the long rows of typists,
clacking away on their manual machines,
fingernails red and hands blue
from the carbon paper, famous
for working the miracle of the triplicate.