Jobless

 

He thought to himself that there

was no such thing.

“There’s always a job to do,” he’d say.

And he was right.

 

If ever a neighbour needed his

talents, he was there:

screwdriver, plug fuse, even door knob.

He was right,

 

there always was a job to do.

He’d been on his back more times

than the one from number nine, he’d joke.

And he was right.

 

Under cars, under tables, under radiators,

he had generated more heat.

How could there be no work to do?

How could they just sit and watch all day?

 

It was when standing that he’d

feel himself most troubled.

Leaning against the porch, watching the

morning-risers on their way.

 

But there was always a job to do to keep him

from thinking too long.

 

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