Docker

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.