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This poem is taken from PN Review 29, Volume 9 Number 3, January - February 1983.

Parable Andrew Waterman

Whenever I first left home
to stand on my own two feet,
I found a bedsitting room
and a job. I worked to eat

to live to (here was the catch)
work, or too often. The firm,
Sturdy, Transom and Crutch,
marketed Grit. A crime

to fill up a brand new day
with footling office routine,
my only use for their pay
some elsewhere-might-have-been.

Stiffkey, Accounts Chief Clerk,
had ulcers and varicose veins
from wasting emotion on work,
giving commands, taking pains;
...


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