School trip.

Young fathers heave military-fatigued
torsos occasionally
behind the airbag,
ear slugs dug in,
I-pods bursting with pop,
with Fifty Favourite Love Songs
or the Asda Collection of Rock.

Number-four cut little boys in red football strips
slip into the waiting black and chrome S.U.V.s.
With tiny heads, they rule from on high,
strapped into their bucket thrones.

In Four-by-Four carriage they turn slightly
to stare through smoked glass,
regarding the walking folk
with wan distain.
They do not intend to turn their heads.
It would not be worth the effort.

Finally they are disgorged, protesting at pre-school.