Why return, look back,
At that Gulag hut?
Where my sixth form time
On the clock’s face, hands-free, writ:
‘Time is a bourgeois concept’.
The sneer-reduced tutor,
With his flat-footed red boots:
An intellectual bully,
Who brought nothing – to us,
‘The Brains Trust’:
His sarcastic, re-parried, thrusts.
My parents asked him:
‘What’s the use of politics,
as a subject choice?’
He joked (unread): ‘Michael could be
a trade unionist, or Labour MP’:
He took them in: so for that act,
this, my decades-reply to
For his staff-room laugh, at simple folk,
Stabbing my parents, slipped cruel joke,
Brief writ now, in my late bourgeois-times,
Look-back, exhale, my knifed-rhyme.