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.