The Commercial Traveller at the Bar Beret on a slant, cultivated mo, the stripey top, Strings of onions from Con the Greek Around the handlebars, practising “Madame” Calling door-to-door pretending to be French. Charming housewives sweeping verandahs With my miracle combination brushes, demoing Vacuum cleaners on shag pile with iron filings, Driving the kombi piled high with kiddies wear From outside Vinnies, “Greensleeves” on rotation. Comforting war widows in the back parlour Leafing through their wedding albums, Promising to write and ducking bullets From the kids playing cowboys and Indians As I took my leave, order book in hand. Kicking…