Sometimes referred to affectionately as Old-Jack-of-Trades.
Has familiars, often taking the form of machinery animated
without explanation, or a singular, lonesome whistling.
The shop floor is purgatory. The spirit can only be exorcised
by the removal of blueprints, the emptying of lockers
and the smelting of several thousand taps, dies and drills.
This spirit has a mischievous sense of humour
which has been broken by three decades of rain, rust,
and under-investment, and is prone to haunting sites
of last employment. It cannot be bottled by priest, policeman
or doctor. Its presence is signified by greasy overalls, missing tea cups,
or footprints from a pair of safety boots, leading nowhere.
This poem was previously published in Anon magazine (issue 8) in Summer 2011.