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There, in the corner, staring at his drink. 
The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam, 
Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw. 
Speech is clamped in the lips' vice. 

That fist would drop a hammer on a Catholic- 
Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again; 
The only Roman collar he tolerates 
Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter. 

Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets; 
God is a foreman with certain definite views 
Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure. 
A factory horn will blare the Resurrection. 

He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, 
Clearly used to silence and an armchair: 
Tonight the wife and children will be quiet 
At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall. 


Submitted by Andrew Mayers

Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 4:05 AM | Viewed: 6272 times

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