London in July. Night, Hot - like sweaty. Sirens in the air, Blue lights abound.
I’m on a late, patrolling, my Day-glow jacket, like a beacon, crowd controlling.
Radio buzzing like a wasp or two. Helmet shining. Handcuffs dangling. Goldfish visor gleaming.
A shop, popped open riotously, burns. Acrid smoke invades my visor, my nose.
A hoodied, bloodied, muddy, yoof, yawning, steals a Sony, the only screen for him.
He turns and runs. The chase begins. “Stop!” I shout but he is fit, nimble and swift
My lunchtime Big Mac (and large fries), breaks my wind, brakes me, makes me sick.
A copper can’t hurry when he’s stuffed with McFlurry, slugged by nuggets, choked by large Coke,
So, breathless, I lean against a rust-red railing and think, ’Am I on overtime?’