Ecce homo, smoko

There's a roomful of blokes
napping when she phones.
A chef, a dishwasher,
a few waiters and her friend
the kitchen-hand stretched out
on backs under chair & table
in the empty upstairs dining room,
unused linen floating above,
bringing melancholy biography to mind:
brute labour force in a foreign country
murmuring gently now at her introduction
on the line.

She can hear unseen space fold
with man-shapes defying addition.
It's ecce homo here he says,
and she sees him gesture at essence,
pronouncing as she has not heard
in Roman tongue, proud, abashed,
so that she forgets to remind him
that, at 34, he's just past the crucifying age.

He indicates the sound of sous chef
Mr Niroz stretched out on the coolroom floor
as cradling her to ear, he transports
her to the bins where they take smoko
the better to exchange birthday greetings.

If this is a poem, she thinks,
where's the fact checker?