Do You Know Her Name?
She stands, cold,
at Waitrose’s door:
An immigrant washed-up,
on our shore!
is an instantly-fired
typed-up-rant,
quick-raged, sick,
a tuneless, descant:
She stands, wet,
at Waitrose’s door:
‘The Big Issue’,
her limp offered store,
undersold, in
our freedom trade,
dignity, her
last held barricade:
She stands, ages,
at Waitrose’s door,
her light smile,
your corner-eyed reward:
A few fear
this awaiting grace,
her quiet held issues,
the rest embrace.
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