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At the grave of William Blake

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.

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