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.

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