Working, Working Poem by Frank Avon

He was an engraver,
'full of work, '
earning a living,
courting a public,
taking commissions,
whatever came to hand,
putting himself to it
to be 'sure of winning a wage, '
lending his efforts
to handbooks of science,
stocking and selling
the outright erotic

(if sometime dilatory,
hardly punctual,
often delaying,
sometimes dabbling
in the mystical,
speaking with Spectres)

and all the while
in a side room
at all hours
in his brother's old notebook
sketching, drafting,
Gates of Paradise,
always exploring

'two contrary states
of the human soul'