Callum

mates from the estates ride past on mountain bikes and scooters 

imitation Gucci bad-boys firing finger-pistol shooters 

going: c’mon Callum, sack it off – school won’t teach you nothin’  

and though he smiles and laughs along     beneath it all he’s bluffing 

he’s seen it with his brothers and a half-remembered dad 

he’s seen the blue lights flashing on some social worker’s pad 

so he packs his bag each morning and gives his nan a kiss 

solid in the knowledge that he wasn’t born for this 

and waits until the bikes      the shouts      the scooters 

        disappear 

then walks into a future somewhere far away from here