He stood to clear the windows
Of the frost that bit inside,
Waiting in routine for weekly freedom.
It hadn't come the week before,
His wife and children cried.
His knuckles bled and tore to fight for income.

Sound and vision,
An illusion of equality.
But he could never hide
The reality of poverty.

The angels floated through the door
And landed in a pile.
Anticipation threw his baby down to cry.
He rummaged and ripped and threw aside,
His anger boiled and riled.
He dropped to his knees too exhausted now to try.

Sound and vision,
This illusion of equality.
Was what he saw but could not hear,
An example of his poverty.

If only he had been allowed
To get an education;
The power of expression had abated to his command.
But his father had decided,
In generation-cascade wisdom,
That the docklands was to be his daily grind.

Sound and vision,
His illusion of equality.
Was what he heard but could not see,
A life of unjust poverty.