The daze at work come and go with an infrequent regularity
Sometimes three,
Sometimes four,
Sometimes five times a week
But recently I’ve had to get used to a new phenomenon
People coming in, people I don’t generally recognise
Asking me about this, my poetry
When am I reading again some ask
I wanted to see a poet at work some say
But the thing I often think is who was that
And have they bought my goddamn book
I know it’ll never save me from this exhausted routine
Of working, drinking, writing, smoking and sleeping
But if they’ve ever read my words they should
Know that I hate that work, that detestable shop and
Most of the people I work with and serve so
Why come and see me down there?
I can only conclude that they want to see me at my lowest
Possible moment and are afraid of stepping into the ring
Of the bar to see me drinking when, no doubt, I would
Try to sell them a book in exchange for a beer doing
Both of us a favour but no they come here instead
To a place where nothing ever changes. The
Homeless masses occasionally return to the icy
Streets from their hostel begging change to support
Their habits and I still get ridiculed about my name;
Today it was our new security guard, Steve, who turned to me
And called me ‘City,’ as in the football team from the town
With which I share a name, but at least this time
It made me laugh as I remembered times at school
When fellow kids would taunt me, calling me ‘Bingley’
After a well-known old-fashioned building society
Until that, I contemplated battering them.
Right now though I just want to escape all this
Nonsense of poetry fans and random taunts
Escaping to somewhere no one knows me where I
Can drink, smoke, work, write and sleep at last in peace.