I had my lunch at the grave of William Blake
It was not symbolic, just a convenience
I worked at an engineering magazine
To impress my father was my intent
As with all the men who worked there
(The women just wanted a high-status mate)
The editor resembled my uncle—another one
An engineer, it must run in the family—somewhat
I didn’t read the sign then, but he was there
To tell me to go back, because this path was dead
(Journalists do no real work, let alone build anything)
However, I could build something—
at the grave of William Blake.