A Friday, Fleet Street, and a flow
of men and women power-dressed
and knocking off for weekends
in the rolling Cotswold hills.
And me, who never had a proper job at all,
now gazing over hipster latte
at the stripey men and at the women in stilettos
as the next song in the café starts.
A blast of brass and then a slinky groove,
a woman’s warming voice intoning to her child
that things will soon get easier, that life will brighten
in the darkness of their struggle to survive.
The suits and the stilettos pass, but in my mind
I see the starving child and hear her momma’s words,
their chances less than average of finding
ease and sunlight on the lethal streets.
The world still fortified against their kind,
designed by men in suits
and ladies in stiletto heels.