FORGOTTEN ARMY

Theirs is the uniform of the off-duty athlete

casually advertising sportswear.

They are sentenced to life in mean homes

with rotting window frames.

Their gardens are clogged gutters,

their fountains mildewed showers.

   They wear trainers,

   but they do not train.

Their prison needs no walls:

they will not escape.

A green belt strangles

the city’s neck;

beyond it they can only stray on day excursions

or for a week at half-board in Tenerife.

   They wear jumpers,

   but they do not jump.

They have bread but no circuses,

carcinogenic smoke to savagely inhale

(yea, a sword shall pierce through their own souls also),

Giros to orientate their weeks,

television to show what they’re missing

and the holiday of unsafe sex.

   They wear sweaters,

   but they do not sweat.