My books lay open all these three short years,
Had time at hand to sit and space to stretch,
With pavement walks, contented times quite soft,
In pairs with fingers closely wrapped around,
We kiss our necks and ears and lips so oft,
In Oxford, divinity I have seen,
For beauty peered through my window at dawn,
Her rosy cheeks, my curtains yet undrawn.

But break me with it –
In service to my career
My ‘career’
I know not –
I thought
was doing enough.
Divinity was sufficient.
Not sufficient
Not a long shot
That skill of yours put to market
In the muted office,
That soul –
Keep me from business,
Intern me not.

So luckless I tread to my working place,
And broken thoughts bring me to concrete fells,
A ruin where closed books all downwards face,
Through windows bearing gruesome sights and bells
Ringing for bygone ages as we bask
In cool screen light and sit there pretending
To thrive in the next lonely, thankless task,
No kisses, only desperate spending.

But work now or then or else,
the command of
business master –
Get me these things, Intern.
I will get you my future
And my cross.

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