Fenchurch Street Poem by Wild Bill Balding

Prisoner and escort
glide into the rooftop station,
as train wheels screech
with sympathy against the check-rails.

Spirit broken,
clad in clothes of a previous era,
he meets the distant American
and is barely allowed to speak.

Trophy child,
doing well at a good school,
there to be admired, prodded,
and maintain the fantasy.

Bacon rind
pushed to the plate's edge
provokes colonial comment:
'You don't like fat? It's good for you.'

Grown-ups
are all the bloody same:
'It's good for you';
'You can't go to London in those trousers'.

One day
his sentence will be over,
and he can start to look for who he really is.
If it's not too late.