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EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the third of a series of odes that chronicle the legacy newsroom. Each is written from different first-person perspective. Together they create the mumbled narrative of a special and sadly contracting culture. The author, Don Nelson, has been a newsman for almost 50 years.
To see previous poems:
Ode #1, City Editor, Friday night
COPY EDITOR, STANDING GUARD
I am the last bastion,
The guardian
Of grammar and syntax,
Spelling and style,
Structure and clarity,
Accuracy and context.
No one gives a s**t.
I write clever headlines
And efficient captions.
I design attractive pages
With multiple reader entry-points
And effective graphics.
I make news judgments
And page assignments
And a hundred other decisions
That will be second-guessed
By people who went home at 4 p.m.
Reporters who hate
What I “did” to their stories,
Editors who don’t take responsibility,
Publishers who are terrified of the readers.
I used to work for this paper only.
Now I’m processing pages
For papers in other towns in other states
That I don’t know f**k-all about.
No one gives a s**t about that either.
I’m the last one out of the building
Except for the pressmen
Who push buttons
And color correct
And watch for web breaks.
They don’t read the paper.
My name appears nowhere in the paper.
I used to resent that.
Now I think
It’s just as well.
Tools of the trade