DEADLINE
cross over the line get shot dead
seventeen feet from stockade
that's cold Civil-War-man
how did the word cross into
our vernacular hop into everyday
use from a grim prison yard
to the desk of a newspaperman
wearing a visor to shade his eyes
from newsroom lights the glare
reflecting off the white page
light coming at him from
everywhere except the end
of the tunnel poor guy
a deadline a calendar date
seems like plenty of time
then suddenly not enough
the clock tick-tocking
the midnight oil a fire hazard
now a combustible’s involved
some like it hot but flames
well can be deadly what
escape from the yearning
to use this word dead to
death my father now dead
was a newspaperman
yellow ticker tape days
rewrote copy to fit page
before someone yelled PRINT
drank a 16 oz Coke straight
from the bottle when
his day was done on
the other side of deadline
yet alive
By: Mary L. Barnard
3/31/12
