Even though you wear that green sweatshirt,
you swore always brought you good luck -
police drag you across shattered blue asphalt, broken glass
through lines of frenzied police lights, whirling sirens,
batons hammering your soft flesh. Evict you.
The one who has your foot, torques it,
forces your ankle against the natural logic of bone.
Your limbs are lacerated on a depleted earth.
The crowd suffers a paralysis of breath.
I muse over the life narrative that brought you here,
think how people labelled you, Traveller, dirty gypsy
b*****d.
I know now this isn't just about Tescos opening,
outcompeting a few, small grocery stores, corner shops
but people arrested in an ever darkening corner of society.
the closing of all avenues in their lives,
recession; how the suited, batoned men,
treat the lowest strata of society, force them to make fists.