Barely five, the boy
holds out his fire-scarred hand
and takes his classmate's toy,
a plastic Star Wars sabre,
a plastic Star Wars sabre,
rests it on his shoulder,
aims and fires, then smiles
and drops it in another land.
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Mostly composed on the 07:33 to Finchley Road, then hastily typed up at work. Apart from the ones written surreptitiously in boring meetings or on the way home.
