Minstrel in the gallery

The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes --- observed the spaces   between the old men’s cackle.   He brewed a song of love and hatred   --- oblique suggestions --- and he waited.   He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming     panel-beaters ---   freshly day-glow’d factory cheaters     (salaried and collar-scrubbing).   (REST THE SAME)   He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming hands     still rubbing on the parts they never mention.   He pacified the nappy-suffering infant-bleating     one-line jokers --- T.V. documentary makers     (overfed and undertakers).   Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred     and women-haters.   Then he called the band down to the stage   and he looked at all the friends he’d made.