Banged-up Boys

Bitter cold November day in Leicester nick

Serious pat down, more a massage  

Unlock lock, unlock lock, unlock LOCK.

Doors and corridors

Disorientation deliberate, unlock, lock, corridor and

Round the bend.

A man jumped from the castellated turrets

Broke both legs. You would.

On the wing, smell thick institutional stodge.  

Echo shouting banging constant.  

Eleven men, eleven damaged boys.  

Eleven year-old stole stepdad’s Jag

Crashing

Eleven year-old starting on gear

Crashing  

What’s your favourite song?

Otis on the dock, my dad’s harmonica

Tamla means happy Mum, no more Dad.

Rapper dealer man–boy so clever

No not 2pac, Patsy Cline.

I fall to pieces.

I do.

He’s out on Christmas eve

Shops shut and empty handed

MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS

Steel doors slam shut till morning

Hand waving, a slice of face at a slither of window

Bye Deborah

I’m going home, going for a pint

And the banged-up boys  

In the banging noise

Write poetry.

© Deborah Delano- November 2018