I didn't want to work in a factory and get my hands dirty, be locked inside grey walls six days a week, as everyone else in my street was, so I got a job selling books from house to house; only I was so terrible shy.
The first doorbell I rang was also my last, the woman who opened the door was kind enough but she didn't want to buy anything, I nearly cried, and didn't have the courage to press my finger on another doorbell.
Selling pictures of farms, taken from a helicopter, was my next job, out all day taking the bus to the countryside only the day I got there it was raining I had no umbrella and the first farm I came to was also my last.
I took a course training to be a waiter, in white jacket and golden epaulet I looked handsome, so my sister said. I did well at the course and got a job at a posh restaurant; but my hands shook I dropped plates and was fired
Finally I got a job on a tank-ship, in her galley hidden from view, washing pots and pan, and hid from the world for thirty years. Now, I write poetry about a sea I hardly saw stuck inside a ship's casing seven days a week.
