Power Pack

Power Pack

 

Fused city throbs

no way back to quietness,

nothing is as it was,

cars and bicycles

recycle the dust

while pedestrians

swarm to the Strand, vehicles

invade via London Bridge,

a monument to durability.

 

The century progresses,

change doesn’t lose

young rich things who

continue to prance

around Belgravia

as though it is theirs.

 

Open-topped cars vibrate

with ugly hip-hop and

R & B, wrapped in Armani.

 

Social revolution threatens as

Home Counties supply Westminster

Old Bailey barristers

Canary Wharf fat cats,

Belgravia Pratts.

 

East End intends

to hit back.

Demeaning jobs

fail to satisfy.

 

Masses creak underpaid

faceless, but named,

sharpened by poverty,

observing a rich clearly

working half-days only.

 

Riots appear distant,

the City's underbelly

exposed that night,

blind chaos, nothing

to be done, thousands

denied by birthright.

 

The City serenely

faces the future, as

people browse pages of

million-pound apartments

in a brochure.

 

JRTF
17/10/14

(2nd version)