A Gathered Church
Pointing Percy at the porcelain,
I play my usual game:
perched on tiptoes, I give God thanks,
let rip and hit the 'ARMITAGE SHANKS'
inscribed above hairline cracks of green
and yellow. Beside me, wringing his dick
for one last drop, the boss flicks
his nose with his thumb as if he alone
knows something worth knowing
before washing the pee from his fingers.
Someone in the cubicle turns
the loose leaf of The Sun, farts,
and sighs with relief at Page Three
and the quickening movement
of last night's pork chops.
So this is the world of men.
Reliving and relieving the burden
of their factory lives. Ablution is absolution
in the closed confessional
of the afternoon tea-break.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Andrew Boobier would be pleased to hear from you.