There, in the corner, staring at his drink. <br />The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam, <br />Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw. <br />Speech is clamped in the lips' vice. <br /> <br />That fist would dropp a hammer on a Catholic- <br />Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again; <br />The only Roman collar he tolerates <br />Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter. <br /> <br />Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets; <br />God is a foreman with certain definite views <br />Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure. <br />A factory horn will blare the Resurrection. <br /> <br />He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, <br />Clearly used to silence and an armchair: <br />Tonight the wife and children will be quiet <br />At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.<br /><br />Seamus Heaney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/docker/
