The kid going round in circles on his bike,
Hip Hop hissing from his mobile phone
as he repeats the same path round the park,
is not up to no good, I know, I’ve been
in the same place, when all front doors are shut
and your own company’s a slow poison.
He finds no succour in youth clubs or art,
perhaps the hours spin him like a lathe
or he makes pissing time away his sport
because he never asked to be alive.