The fourteen-year-old speaker of these sonnets addresses his beloved Frankie in a voice that mixes office-boy slang with the formal sonnet structure. He stands by her desk, watches her type, and imagines rescues and rivalries. The poems move between the mundane office—where the boss scolds and a long-legged clerk lingers—and the boy’s interior world of daydreams. Kiser builds each sonnet around a single situation or fantasy, using the fourteen-line form to contain and heighten the speaker’s earnest, unpolished emotions.

The Office as Stage

The office is the constant backdrop: the “old man” who scolds, the typewriter keys that “play sweet music,” the chair where Frankie bends to write. The boy’s fantasies—a fire, an island, a hospital bedside—all spring from this setting. He notices details like the poker-singed hair and the little overshoe he once kissed. The office is not just a place of work but a stage for longing, where every glance and scolding becomes material for the sonnet.

A Voice of Deliberate Artlessness

The speaker’s dialect—“knowed,” “wisht,” “wunst,” “e’t”—is consistent and carefully rendered. He calls Frankie by name only in the fourth sonnet, and elsewhere refers to her indirectly. His grammar slips betray his age and class, but the sonnets themselves are formally precise: fourteen lines, regular rhyme schemes, and a turn or volta near the end. The contrast between the rough voice and the polished form is the book’s central structural device.

Recurring Motifs of Touch and Distance

Touch is rare and imagined: he kisses her overshoe, touches his lips where her fingers struck the keys, longs to grab her hands. The distance between them is measured in years—he is fourteen, she twenty-five or six—and in social roles. He is the unnoticed boy; she calls him “Willie.” The poems circle around this gap, bridging it only in fantasy. The hairpin he found on the floor becomes a talisman of proximity.

The Rival and the Future Self

A “long-legged bookkeeper” or clerk appears as a rival, smiling at Frankie and staying late. The boy’s jealousy is quiet but pointed: he notes the clerk’s pretense of being gay and his evident bad feeling. In the final sonnet excerpted, the speaker projects himself into the future—rich, proud, tall, and handsome—while Frankie watches from a crowd, sorry she didn’t wait. This temporal leap is the only escape from the fixed roles of the office.

These sonnets reward attention to their small, precise details: the dented hat, the poker-singed hair, the sound of keys. The voice is consistent and the structure tight, each poem a self-contained scene. Readers may find the humor in the boy’s earnestness, but the pathos is real. The book is best read as a sequence, where the fantasies accumulate and the office remains, unchanging, around them.