This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

All it took was
One grown-up touch
Too close to places she was
Too young to name.

Now all hands move
Like searching spiders on the
Table of her little
Self.

Skin constantly goosebumped.
Eyes focused on the
Potential harmfulness
Within and between all things
That move with
Predatory silence.

She walks as if under
Water, like a weblocked
Fly; afraid to make ripples
And draw

Adult
Arachnid
Attention.

Rows of rogue gladiators
Recaptured and crucified.
Muscles, grit and warriorship

Beyond that of any centurion,
Humbled, humiliated, spat upon
By the wine-greased gears of a

Machine the size of seized continents
And cultures crushed to crumbs
Within weeks -not centuries.

The stuff of contemporary tales and
Future feature films. Justice -not
Unlike poetry- is a purely man-made

Concept. But so very unlike the
Other; as frail in its mortality as
Man's own justless Self.