Bradley Bashbrook

 Bradley Bashbrook

 

Bradley Bashbrook nicked my pen:

I couldn’t prove it, of course,

for long hours, I glowered at him

at the back of my class,

he sat there, bold as brass,

sporting it in his school shirt top pocket,

with occasional stainless-steel glint

in his famished eye. His family’s skint,

shredded grubby cuffs and sleeves,

probably doing the best she can,

but what can he expect?

She must’ve slept through Home Ec.

and down that estate

there are dozens more ships sinking;

that’s my Parker Pen, I’m thinking,

while she’s at Poundland doing a shift,

to put beans on his plate,

so you shrug it off without debate,

let it slip and teach.

Some will fail, some you’ll reach,

until sick suits, in chauffeured cars,

put down these populations,

a kindness, they would call it,

taxpayers deserve some return

after all, so they burn and churn

as is fitting for grasping, falling nations,

wield every trick in the book

and crush his coasting coastal school.

Bradley Bashbrook nicked my pen

and I shed a tear, often.