To the factory or sign on,

I chose boxes over tick boxes

bubble-wrap instead of hoops.

 

Through the drop down concertina

to shop-floor beyond

where sat a corner office man

in headphones so tight

they split his cork-screw perm

like a butterfly cake,

Fender copy on knee,

picking notes with

blue Elastoplast fingertips,

ignored my cv and instead

let Hey Joe recognition

win him over,

offering £33/wk

& all the vinyl

we could purloin.

 

But he didn’t warn me that

Radio 1 dumbed down 9-5

& Janis never kicked the boss’ Mercedes,

but we got to clean it.