I am a great deal better at poetry than I am at expressing myself competently on job applications.

If you think this alternative answer is a poor poem, spare a thought for the wretchedness of my CV writing:

I like to watch the way the egg hugs to the side of the pan
like a nervous swimmer on the edge of a communal pool
brown cap on. The way that nothing seems to change
whilst inside every filament is strained in transformation.

My mind has cloisters; arches enfold thoughts,
put there for later. They are shy and little comfort:
‘Ah, the 1919 Molasses Disaster. Boston. 21 Dead.’
Awkwardness, then laughter, the pretence it wasn’t said.

I’m entranced by mime, observing shoppers moving
with my headphones in ,so that they seem to float along
down the current of the song I’ve chosen.
Most comforted
by railway stations, feeling held by the grubby seats of trains
which pull me out of here and grant me change.