Barry Fentiman

The Duce Of Coach 3 of 8

For you there is only this moment, this thing that you do right now,
This breath, this opinion you blow so carelessly,
I see you on the train advertising your newspaper, tells it like it is mate,
The headline, that tosses lit matches and walks away,
If I could make this fire you play with real, I would do it,
And by those burns you shall be seen.

You talk of our history, our kind, the way things were 20 years past,
But it is yours and yours alone, my little Islander,
It is a drop of rain, it came, it went, no more than that,
If I could turn your words to shit so that you would choke on them,
And feel its taste, the stink never fading, I would do it,
And by its taint you shall be known.

You appeal to my accident of birth, accuse me of treason,
Clearly mistaking me for one who is as white as you,
You seek a mirror, for all your prejudices and insecurities,
But that is not me my confidante, for a colour is all we share,
If I could make your thoughts tattoos I would do it, this table turned,
And by your skin shall you be judged.