They’ve got jobs –
we finally see the key workers:
the paper-clad doctors and nurses
saving the sick and the dying (or trying to
on the linen streets of the front lines)
the stackers and cashiers within
the tin-packed walls of the supermarkets
who are saving us from starvation
and the students and unemployed bar staff
stepping up to pick and pack berries and lettuces
packed with vitamins to keep us healthy
whilst the grave diggers and funeral service
pack post-vegetable bodies back into the earth
and the binmen in their bleeping lorry continue
to turn up weekly to remove our waste.
And no, I have never seen a binwoman, but
I was asked if I was one when I was litter picking.
Now even this small job has been taken away
I am flicking through job descriptions application forms
fingers hovering over wonky letters stuck on keys because
the originals were rubbed off over long years of writing
(which has never quite been a ‘proper job’) weighing
the balance between making myself enjobbed useful
and the risk to my seventy-odd year old parents.
All the while the name of a job
that I have never seen advertised online
or even in a fluffy cloud in a Pagan magazine
is pressing its silver lining against the back of my brain:
low risk, innocuous, invisible: ‘MYSTIC.’
“By the Stars of Annwn are you having a laugh?”
I rage at my gods before joining them
laughing loud and hysterically.