Prisoner and escort <br />glide into the rooftop station, <br />as train wheels screech <br />with sympathy against the check-rails. <br /> <br />Spirit broken, <br />clad in clothes of a previous era, <br />he meets the distant American <br />and is barely allowed to speak. <br /> <br />Trophy child, <br />doing well at a good school, <br />there to be admired, prodded, <br />and maintain the fantasy. <br /> <br />Bacon rind <br />pushed to the plate's edge <br />provokes colonial comment: <br />'You don't like fat? It's good for you.' <br /> <br />Grown-ups <br />are all the bloody same: <br />'It's good for you'; <br />'You can't go to London in those trousers'. <br /> <br />One day <br />his sentence will be over, <br />and he can start to look for who he really is. <br />If it's not too late.<br /><br />Wild Bill Balding<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fenchurch-street/
