London.

There is something odd
About a place with merely a street or a river
Separating the rich from the poor.
The middle-aged millionaire,
His young, blonde, synthetic wife,
Her original parts are twenty-four,
But the improvements?
Those are merely months.
Counting their cash,
Buying their cars,
Selling their soul for immortality.
Only ever worrying
About who sleeps with who,
Who said what,
How much tax can be avoided.
Prison? But that’s for poor people.
But metres away,
In a one-bedroom flat,
Lives a single mother
Of two, a boy and a girl,
Who is living hand to mouth.
Too proud to sign on,
(Her mother never did),
Clothing her babies
In the finest garments
Her local charity shop
Can supply.
Going hungry herself
“Don’t worry, mummy’s already eaten”,
Scrabbling around in her purse
For a bus fare.
The doctor’s surgery is too far to walk.
A mile at most, between two walks of life,
But physical distance is not the only kind.