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.