Its half past nine in the lean to shed
lined in shade prior to bed.
Silent shivering in the stockinged line
Shoes displayed to inspect the shine.
Heads bowed waiting for the polio tread
of Louis’ jab stick passport to bed.
For me the leg slap, the sneering frown
On your knees boy, down, down.
Twenty Brothers boots to polish now.
Nightly offering to the sacred cow
of mindless control
of sole and soul.
Punishment sans measure
of wrong or right.
Futile soul cleansing
on this winter night.
Polish and confessors cleanse
our re-emerging stain.
Shaping and shining
our novitiate brain
We strive to shine,
we bully boots and buff.
In this Christ ridden world
we are never good enough.
From the collection The Stockinged Line by Bill Griffin
The Scribbler Griffin 