Does all the brave talk of war add a piquancy to intimate dinners with old friends?

All that hot criticism to warm the blood and snifters of brandy around the teak dining room tables?  

Does it feel racy, like forbidden fruit, as you loose racist barbs from behind

the net curtains of your secure sanctuaries, adding a touch of spice, a warm sense of belonging?

But, what does it mean to me

when those words of yours won’t stay inside your colour co-ordinated living-rooms?

Because, you see, words don’t.

They seep between the cracks of windows, out beneath the shut doors –

they smoulder inside the ears of your workers, they get carried out into the world in the hearts of your children.

What does it mean to me

as I walk through this city breathing in thick winter air, air heavy with your words?

What does it mean to me as I negotiate crowds of cold and hungry and tired people

who are trying to live in spite of your words?