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.