The Extra Mile

After forty years on production
they finally let Harry go. While
the old man leaned on his lathe,
a smile of awe and terror greased
on his face, the Boss called us in
to surround him. ‘This man worked
for forty years,’ he boasted
on Harry’s behalf. ‘Never a day
did he call in drunk and say he was
only sick. When Harry was off work
I knew he was at death’s door.
He always worked his weight.’

But after we’d shown Harry the door,
pointing him down the street
as though a new America had been
discovered and a midnight boat was
sailing, the Boss strung another tune
on his bow. ‘Harry always did enough,’
he lamented, warning judgment
upon us all. ‘But he’d never go
that extra mile.’

And six months later, bearing
the company’s regards behind
the coffin, I watched them
winch Harry down into the hold.
It hadn’t taken him as long
to drink himself to death
as he always said he would.
And I wondered if never going
that extra mile had been
his strategy to make it,
guaranteeing himself a pay-off
just long enough to take back
in beer a little of the sweat
he’d poured for twenty years
over that stinking machine:

the same one the Boss gave
me the license for as though
it were a map, a clue to
the whereabouts of the extra mile
Harry had never believed in.

‘Get back to work,’ he said.