The Pantyhose Horrors of Summer Internships

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

The summer of ’79’s facetious fun
Meant typewriter trauma, all manual,
Pantyhose horrors, thirty-five cent buses,
Faux pas built on office politics.
Most female interns floundered,
Stenography was a practiced art,
Supervisors were necessarily hung.

Jogging suits felt groovy,
Wall phone came in colors,
Coffee machines squirted choice,
Copy machines were dreams.
Big Bosses smiled at curled hair,
Painted lipstick, also mascara,
Executive lunchroom politics.

Work like a dog, think like a man,
Nod like a lady, fret like a child,
Expect people beyond PR,
To misunderstand (a lot).
Call shipping. Call shipping.
Read the newspaper,
Peruse dictionaries. Blow gum bubbles.

Call the west coast, Call the east,
Sneak a peak, without computers, at lists
Of your friend’s fathers’ promotions,
Twirl your extra office chair.
Get regular haircuts, manicures.
Memorize the company song.
Polish introductions, use white out.

These days, flat-screened, run-on realities dictate time sharing.
Gender preferences hide, other demographics slink, all LinkedIn aliases.
Working from home, bunny slippers, tea, hangovers, absorbs the populace.
Maybe, perhaps, what if, a girlie elected an international commerce.
Would jet planes, transatlantic software systems, avatars suffice?
Contemporary time zones function as so much punctuation;
Interns, now, get paid to update technology, upload themselves.