He emerges from the bunkhouse
yawning and rubbing his unwashed face.
He is short, squat, an ugly little man.

Since he's worked at the stables
his trousers have become tight and
his worn-out belt in its last notch.

He cleans his nose by holding it
and blowing out -- wherever it lands.

He smells the aroma of frying bacon
long before the lady rings the gong,
hikes up his trousers and hurries
to the house, sits on the steps

Idly playing with his shoelaces.
Pretending to be preoccupied
so he won't be the first at the table.