Donald Ward
The Visitor
And brisk, O brisk, the barman is —
His shirt is a choirboy white, his fingers leap,
He picks the naked tumblers in his sleep.
Spanning all day, now his fingers dream,
His eye seems cold, yet his eye is quick —
He picks the naked tumblers in his sleep.
O whom he draws: that couple really ‘there’,
The two so quiet that their voices roar —
He picks the naked tumblers in his sleep.
Faces crack, navels strain and split;
That mild eye the greasy rumour is,
He picks the naked tumblers in his sleep.
The leather boys frisky for the draw
Undress the bird who is their favourite whore,
He picks the naked tumblers in his sleep.
The stifled eyes are hanging out for more,
Too bored to die; too terrified to weep —
He picks the naked tumblers from their sleep.
Page(s) 15-16
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