Read Poetry: Toby Sycamore, by Ben Westwood

Toby Sycamore
Again I’m in London, and I’m back on the run,
And because I was grassed up before,
I need to stay undetected, so that nobody finds me,
I’m going to have to try more.

No-one can know that my real is Ben, and that I’ve ran away
from care,
Folk will be asking for me around Whitechapel, so it’s best
they think I’ve not been there.
So I speak a fake accent, a pretend East End cockney, from
the moment I wake up, until night.

For the whole next four months, with everyone that I meet,
just so I know that I’m alright.
Or else they might find me, when Old Bill ask questions,
someone might say, “I know him”.

So if everyone thinks that I’m from round here,
The chances I’m caught are quite slim.
One day plain-clothes police pulled me outside Victoria station,
asking people outside for spare change.

They were gonna release me, but decided they couldn’t, as I
was young and my story seemed strange.
The address that I gave, just didn’t exist, which I’d said in
my fake cockney voice.

And two-and-half hours later, they still wouldn’t release me,
I knew I did not have a choice.
“Hands up I’ve been caught, I’m not really from here”,
I said like I spoke when back home.

I thought they’d go mad, but in the end I was glad,
it all ended in humourful tone.
“You did have us fooled, we thought you were local,
it was just the address that you gave,
Which had made us suspicious, or else we would have
released you out onto your way.”

Well its more lessons learnt for the next time I guess, as I
wait to be brought home by escort.
If you need to stop for the bog, they’ll walk you right to
the door, but the lift home there’s time for some thought.
A few hours later I’m well on my way, and I know at least I’ll
get a warm bed.

Once I get back to the kids home where I live,
I’ll wash all my clothes and get fed.
But everyone knows that I’ll soon be back, via hitchhiking or
bunking the train.
And I’ll always choose a different way to get there; it may be
unwise to pick the same.

From Winnersh Triangle, Watford Gap, Oxford, Milton
I’m searching for my independence.
Nothing stops these dreams.

I know that I can make my way, back to find Joanne.
Just go the way they least expect, was usually my plan.
Often I would walk through town, through Pinner, St Johns
As long as no-one knows I’m Ben, I’ll reckon I’ll be good.

About poetryfest

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This entry was posted in 2018 Poetry, new poetry, poetry, Poetry Festival and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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