Minstrel In The Gallery

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.