Barbican boy with his arms folded:
he’s angry for having been scolded,
and now just sitting there.
Hunched over with his face scrunched up,
like a crushed polystyrene cup,
with his eyes behind his hair.
And now, my barbican one?
Do you withdraw till the day is done?
With your heart’s aimless scorn.
Portcullis shut, curtains drawn.
You’d swear I was your prosecution.
Though for all my part I know just this;
of my dark powers and magical kiss,
that could make for fine restitution.
-o0o-
