23. Taken

He rides in the back with the other
unnamed noblemen because to them
he’s the same. It’s like Bastille Day,
but he’s in a police van, siren sawing,
speeding towards Shepherd’s Bush.
Society is a closed shop. The press
have displayed a morbid taste for
his affairs, often factually flawed;
they printed his address as Carfax,
declared dead foxes in a cemetery
his work. Halting, first from the van,
It is the man himself! a hack cries.

@ianjmclachlan