The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
Smiling faces.
He met the gazes — observed the spaces between the
Old men’s cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred — oblique
Suggestions — and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters — static-humming
Panel-beaters — freshly day-glow’d factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action — belly warming, hands
Still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
One-line jokers — t.v. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players — family-scarred
And women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
Looked at all the friends he’d made.
The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
Rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass – saw his face in
Everyone.
