You get the feeling he would cross the road

To not to have to give you time of day,

Though in his flowered garden, taut, he dotes

On children, bouncing them upon his knee,

And will cherish every stricken insect

Like a father cradling his newly born.

In working hours, required stiffness

Does not prevent him cracking the odd joke.

He says it’s nothing personal (it is);

It has to be done and he will do it.

What goes through his mind as he wanders home?

What does he think as he closes the door?

Does he leave, like his hat, the day behind?

Or somewhere does a conscience start to prowl?