Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Ellen McGrath Smith’s "City" is a sharp, observational poem that captures the quiet alienation and absurdities of office life, where suspicion and bureaucracy dictate human interactions. The speaker, embedded in a stagnant and disillusioned work environment, adopts the persona of a "spy," using irony to expose the tension, pettiness, and unspoken grievances that shape office culture. The poem’s tone is wry and self-aware, offering both an indictment of the system and a reflection on the ways in which one navigates it for survival.

The opening lines establish the speaker’s uneasy position: "I was called a spy last week by a fifty-year-old co-worker / who has raised three whole children." The phrase "three whole children" introduces a dry, almost bemused detachment, as if the co-worker’s personal achievements are being tallied like bureaucratic statistics. The accusation of being a "spy" suggests workplace paranoia, a fear of being watched, judged, or undermined. However, rather than outright rejecting the label, the speaker embraces and redefines it: "It doesn’t surprise me." This signals a shift in perspective—if she is indeed a spy, it is not in the traditional sense, but as an observer of the dysfunction around her.

The speaker describes herself as self-appointed: "The mayor didn’t hire me, the controller didn’t hire me; I hired myself / to spy on the stale paranoia that comes with twenty years of doing exactly the same job, administration after administration." The tone here is almost journalistic, positioning the speaker as someone investigating the office’s slow decay. She spies "on Evelyn vomiting booze in the ladies? room / at nine A.M.," capturing the quiet desperation of a co-worker numbing herself to the monotony. She observes "homeless people pressing all seven stops on the elevator just to stay warm longer," highlighting the intersection of corporate sterility and urban struggle. These moments underscore how the office is not just a place of work but a microcosm of larger societal failures, where people cope in ways both drastic and mundane.

Her espionage extends beyond individuals to the subtle hierarchies within the office: "I spy / on the looks that say / ?you got a job? with accusation, on my fingers moving faster on the keys when my mind moves slower, on women stealing Xerox for their churches." The "looks that say / ?you got a job?" carry a tone of resentment, revealing a workplace where employment itself is seen as an undeserved privilege rather than a secure right. The contrast between "fingers moving faster on the keys" and "my mind moves slower" captures the mechanical, detached nature of office work, where productivity is often performative rather than meaningful. The detail of "women stealing Xerox for their churches" adds another layer to the theme of minor workplace transgressions—here, theft is recontextualized as a form of community service, a small defiance against a system that does not provide enough.

The speaker’s espionage leads to bitter insights: "Through espionage, / I learn of the proprietary way people who get paid more call themselves / ?professionals.? I learn to plan my sick days strategically. I try to accrue my one-half personal day every month." The word "proprietary" suggests that professionalism is less about skill and more about maintaining control, about who gets to claim authority. The mention of "one-half personal day every month" illustrates the absurdity of corporate policies that grant workers minuscule amounts of personal time, reinforcing the idea that survival in such an environment requires calculated maneuvering.

The poem ends with a moment of uneasy self-awareness: "Every time I get my paycheck, I hope I don’t get caught. / But if I hadn’t spied / on the woman who called me a spy, enough to understand / how she can be so bored and petty, I might be taking swipes at her in the coffee room, / which has happened before / and which would put me on probation." The line "I hope I don’t get caught" suggests that merely existing within this system feels like a crime. However, the final realization is more complex—by "spying" on her co-worker, she has come to understand her pettiness, preventing her from lashing out in ways that could threaten her own position. This is both a small victory and a concession to the system’s power: rather than rebelling openly, she absorbs her frustrations, knowing that resistance could lead to punishment.

"City" is a poem of quiet resistance and survival, revealing the small, calculated choices required to navigate an environment where power, resentment, and monotony shape daily life. The speaker’s role as a "spy" allows her to see beyond surface-level grievances, but this knowledge does not free her; it merely teaches her how to endure. The poem ultimately captures the suffocating nature of bureaucratic spaces, where self-preservation often requires becoming complicit in the very system one critiques.

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