In expensive shoes,

he negotiated life in the third person;

toes swathed in top quality calfskin,

safe from random shit and shards,

where neither grass nor paved path

could sully his soft arches and soles.

 

He wore fine suits;

an actor avoiding the fourth wall,

costumed and painted with lines learnt,

senses fenced off with silk and cashmere,

any truthful light blocked by scenery.

 

He drove fast cars;

cosseted in high-end second skin caskets,

hermetically sealed and sheltered from rain,

all shocks absorbed and sins absolved,

reality suspended for the duration.

 

Using remote screens,

he casually exploited worlds lived separately,

salving conscience with painless gestures,

shifting small sums with gift aided texts,

untouched by the sweat of first person lives;

 

always remembering to give openly,

while keeping a record for tax purposes.