The Candlemaker's Office

The Candlemaker’s Office was sparsely filled. The worn brass door knob — a patina countless hands slipping over its surface, polished and discolored by each touch. That oak door — turning my wrist lean into it fighting the rub door against frame hearing single pane glass rattle — I’d pushed through. His wall — dirty darkened oak framed a wall of glass allowing The Candlemaker to gaze upon people machine if he chose — yet his view on equal footing not elevated a humble oversight. Flooring — off-white asbestos set in squares dark from factory dirt moved by the feet of workers. A lone green metal desk — flanked by a single gray file cabinet: adding machine, rotary phone, worn desk blotter, barometer, a nameplate should you not know who he was. Similar version previously published by Ink, Sweat and Tears 2019