Streatham High Street Poem by Tom Sinclair

Muffin top overflows
Green trousers
A pram is pushed
A pair of married beggars stops
Need food, need money
This is my wife
I'll buy you food
Don't understand, little English
Just a pound
I move on apologising
He relents
Wide street full of cars
A man carries keys, lunch
And three invoice pads
The shop I'm waiting for
To buy things I can't eat
Another guy returns as he opens
The shop is as good
As his word
The man who runs it
Is pudgy and animated
With glasses that tell of our shared interest
Afterwards
I make my way towards a bus stop
The first restaurant I find isn't serving,
later I turn a corner and find myself
In a world of Somalian cafés
No menus
Nobody’s eating
Nobody’s drinking
They watch TV in silence
Outside they chat with excitement
I eat elsewhere
Not wanting to disturb their peace
I read a Christmas card from my Chaplin Mirabel, smile and eat without
Saying grace
I ask for a fork for my chips, drink my pineapple soda
Wish I knew a way to divide my food
Feed the hungry
But I have to make do with eating my burger with my hands
And knowing my father would not be
Well pleased
I stole the pen I wrote this with
It was a pound for the paper
But I cannot buy my peace
I will have to fight for that
Carve freedom,
without even a plastic knife