Bad families are coloured red;

to discover what’s above their heads,

take the northbound carriageway

and exit any junction that you like.

First left and on until the rain begins,

the rooftops blink through yellow fog

and for fuck’s sake is the common form of prayer.

We’re there.

Where drug dealing, phone stealing bandits on benefits

are having it large on stolen premises;

the ones we left for dead, in photos, memories.

Red is arousal, red is arrears.  

Red is the cheek, the burning ears.

They’re always skint, they smoke and drink.

We can’t accept the proffered cup

that’s chipped and stained for months and months.  

We’re coloured blue, a sober hue, our sadness due

to shakes and frowns, to looking down

on kids who don’t speak proper grammar,

on parents talking even badder. 

There ought to be a thesaurus

thrown in for foster carers.

They come with shits and nits and worms

and soon they’re itching to return.

We’re Sunday best, a trip to church,

a teacher’s words scratched white on black

and I have come to hate this class.