Poetry

Working class

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I’m classed as an essential key worker

But not in most peoples eyes

I’m the lowest of the low

How far can you really go?

With that terminology

To that place, you detest the most

Cos you think its worthless

But now its value is really showing

Worth its weight in gold

Ask me how am feeling?

The reality of that I am dealing

In my blue gloves, my mask adorned

My tiredness shows, my face is worn

With some stress, my heads not a mess

But my body’s ready for bed

Stiff and achy, enough said

I still crack a smile

But all the while

Whilst people families are locked up inside

And I’m working with their parents old

Why aren’t they in your world?

Me the stranger doing your job, your duty

As your afraid, so you need to be duty free

Don’t place extra demands on me

I do think maybe or maybe not

Corona virus will knock on my door

But I stop and move my mood to a better place

Where I can think from in grace

Rather than fleeting moments of torment

Or lament

But I have to add no thankyou to the shite bus times

When I miss a bus I can only say fine!

So ode to you Bradfordian world

As I sit down with a cuppa to unwind and unfurl

With a cuppa and eat my supper

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