There’s a man who knows all about us.
There are papers about where we went wrong.
There are computers fed with our names.
There are sentences passed down by the strong.
There are photographs that don’t show ourselves.
There’s a woman pretending she’s forgotten us.
There’s a parcel collected by hand
with no respect for the post-office regulations.
There are people looking at us in the street.
There goes a friend who passes us without hello.
There are steps that squeak under strange feet.
There are dreams the days still holds below.