Jobsworth

April 3rd, and we are asked to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be. Our poem could feature a very relaxed brain surgeon, or a farmer that hates vegetables. Or maybe we have a poetical alter-ego of our own who runs against the grain of society’s expectations.

Years ago I used to do a lot of business networking where I would expect to be asked my profession, but I am always puzzled by the social introductory question “so, what do you do?” as if we are only as valuable as how we earn a crust. I’ve blended them both in my response.

She grips my hand in an alligator bite like vice,
Did I kill her child, her cat, her dog?
Then she asks the question that sends that left me all agog –

So, what is it that you do?

Well,

I like making flaky pastry,
I knead love into filo and choux
I dream dreams of my children’s futures,
While sleeping I still love them true.

I scale metaphorical mountains,
They can be the hardest to climb.
I love dancing naked in rainfall,
And swimming buff in Ibiza sunshine.

I build portals in my garden
Gateways to heaven, not hell,
Like when I go fishing with my mates,
I’m the sea, it makes me swell.

I used to do philately,
But the cost, it stamped that right out,
I’ve a fondness for kissing my girlfriend,
I thank God she’s no Botox Trout!

I’ve been seen dancing like a gibbon on acid,
My music has always been my best friend,
And if friendship requires loyalty,
Mine’s yours till the sweet or bitterest end.

Life’s too short to be taken seriously,
Man, there’s so much more you can do,
Be awake to every passing moment,
As when having a luxurious poo!

Don’t judge me by my occupation,
It does not define who I am,
But if you need me to answer your question,
I try every day, to be the best of who I am.