The Candidate

On the next page the ink turns green

Fresh shoots, new hope, all that palaver

You examine the manuscript under a loop of magnified manifold

You process pleasure in Powerpoint bullets

Tarnish templates with monotype ghosting

It’s all done with robots now but you like to muck in

No parchment too precious for fingers to wander

You meter their words, box in statements of intent.

There is such a thing as perfect length or outstaying welcomes

There is no such thing as the perfect applicant.

 

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