The start was concrete
with water into heat – no
shelter from it – scurrying
backwards to my yeasty flat.
I can now list all those
temporary particulates –
this does me no good.
But first, imagine a man
paid to sit in a box on a
bridge, taking five pence
from every motorist.
As a job, it has limits.
Possibilities are endless.
Some would stay aloof,
Geoffrey Plovdiv, who coughed
over HR’s footsteps, taken for
some kindness training. He
had every worthless degree
known to humanity, fell through floor
after floor, landed in base analytics and
found himself in a childhood without his
children – no sound, just absence.
The bridge’s owners think strategy –
investment and potential for growth.
Poor Geoff. Mostly people paid but
some would drop gum or After Eight
Mints into his hairy paw. I winced
as he begged for tenure at the
University of Central Bedfordshire,
the job taken by a serial killer
turned criminology professor.
I am a lecturer in Criminology and Forensic Best Practice, at The University of Staffordshire. Is this supposed to be funny? I fail to see the joke – and I have an excellent sense of humour (ask my many satisfied students).Comment by Ginny on 19 September, 2021 at 5:10 pm
Many apologies. I am myself a Staffordshire alumnus – ‘the Oxbridge of the Potteries’ – where I read Intersectional Heteronormative Studies. Indeed, I remember your lectures on Fred and Rose West – I still have the T-shirt with Fred’s mugshot and side-burns on it.Comment by PAUL SUTTON on 20 September, 2021 at 6:49 pm
Your poem is, arguably, a hate-crime against the Criminological community/the people of Bedfordshire. More importantly, without my discipline, our streets would be flooded with serial killers and muggers. I doubt you yourself have any education.Comment by Ginny on 21 September, 2021 at 4:34 pm