He’s your son! she screamed

as he ran off and hid

by the photo booth;

and she raced after him,

the pushchair bouncing

in the yellow light,

the dark tight

around his hood

as he buried his eyes,

a witness yawning in the cold after-hour,

watching from the down-line, the players staged.

He’s your son! she screamed

as he ran round the bench

and tugged at her hair

and plucked at her breasts,

poking her trainers

and kicking at cups.

He hid by the toilets.

A curtain of bitter wind rasped down the line,

and silence,

as she wrapped the bundle tight against the dark.