The Lens Grinder

In clean kept quiet a hidden voice cries out,

Sulking inside the vice that forces it:

A steady silver hammer taps the mind,

The neuro-jeweler polishes his gem;

I look into his smart eye-piece and grin:

As snug as any barrel-hole he shines.

Used to the swats and smarts that scold a boy,

The surly blows that make a man of him,

I rise at midnight in a sleeping house

And stub my toe, first, on the top stair step

That squeals at me for placing weight on it:

Then hobble to the cobbles of your sheet.

HAROLD FLEMING