Today, he stands next to a starving child,
Not knowing that he's going to hell.
He looks into the camera lens,
(Latest model, with that nice newness smell).
He composes an appropriate face:
The crops have failed, this child will die,
And someone has to take the blame.
(Can we encourage the mother to cry,
And then get close-ups of the tears in her eyes?),
But the mother stays mute and her eyes are dry.
Horrified at the unasked-for intrusion,
Of these other staring eyes,
She shrugs and sighs and shifts her gaze,
To the bottle of water in his brief case,
The packet of crisps, the half-eaten pie.
© Robin Kidson