найти литературный приём В этом стихе Их 6 там, я не могу найти...умоляю I like working near a door. I like to have my work-bench close by, with a locker handy. Here the cold creeps in under the big doors, and in the summer hot dust swirls, clogging the nose. When the big doors open to admit a lorry-load of steel, conditions do not improve. Even so, I put up with it, and wouldn’t care to shift to another bench, away from the big doors. As one may imagine this is a noisy place with smoke rising, machines thumping and thrusting, people kneading, shaping and putting things together. Because I am nearest to the big doors I am the farthest away from those who have come down to shout instructions in my ear. I am the first to greet strangers who drift in through the open doors looking for work. I give them as much information as they require, direct them to the offices, and acknowledge the casual recognition that one worker signs to another. I can always tell the look on the faces of the successful ones as they hurry away. The look on the faces of the unlucky I know also, but cannot easily forget. I have worked here for fifteen months. It’s too good to last. Orders will fall off and there will be a reduction in staff. More people than we can cope with will be brought in from other lands: people who are also looking for something more real, more lasting, more permanent maybe, than dying…. I really ought to be looking for another job before the axe falls. These thoughts I push away, I think that I am lucky to have a position by the big doors which open out to a short alley leading to the main street; console myself that if the worst happened I at least would have no great distance to carry my gear and tool-box off the premises. I always like working near a door. I always look for a work-bench hard by – in case an earthquake occurs, and fire breaks out, you know?
