–

–

Dressed in his resplendent uniform

and his white silken gloves

each with three buttons

he shines porcelain daily

—

He places ancient scrolls of parchment

in the sacred reading cubicles

he wets the terracotta dreams and waxes

filling all the phials with ointment

—

He tinctures the air with incense

and places floral offerings in the vase

he cleans each shining altar with love

adding Naptha where it is needed

—

Cleanliness is his obsession

and soon they will visit his shrine

the one he cares for day after day

spick and span, spick and span

—

He knows his place.

—

Soon the Temple doors will open

and they will flock for confession

for some welcome release on their journey

just passing through, passing through

—

He knows that they cannot see him

untouchable the Brahmin in his Soul

does what he must always do

he shines porcelain daily

—

He buffs the vanity mirrors

and fills all the machines with fayre

adding blue pills and plastic

which perhaps, they might later wear.

—

He knows his place.

—

And when his shift is done

he reads Nietzsche in the night

and Lao Tze at dawn

he worries at the fading of his sight

—

As the eight bells toll at five

once more he becomes alive

he shuffles off the duvet warm

and reveilles at his alarm

—

Dressed in his resplendent uniform

and his white silken gloves

each with three buttons

he shines porcelain daily

—

He knows his place…