Thursday, February 7, 2008

Fenchurch Street

Rating: 5.0
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.'

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.
Wild Bill Balding
Sandra Fowler 20 July 2008
Very touching. Sympathy without sentimentality. Spare poem pictures that convey a message of compassion, nonetheless. I like this one very much. Thank you. Warm regards, Sandra
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