The Lavatory AttendantSlumped on a chair, his body is an S
That wants to be a minus sign.
His face is overripe Wensleydale
Going blue at the edges.
In overalls of sacerdotal white
He guards a row of fonts
With lids like eye-patches. Snapped shut
They are castanets. All day he hears
Short-lived Niagara's, the clank
And gurgle of canescent cisterns.
When evening comes he sluices a thin tide
Across sand-coloured lino,
Turns Medusa on her head
And wipes the floor with her.