You can tell
from his bewildered face
he isn’t happy in this place

Here come flags, the banging drums,
the marching men,
the single mums.

He hates these men, his dads old muckers
drunken medal wearing
fuckers.

When poppies fall in civic halls
his only thought
to burn them all,

for all he wants is what he had
the fallen poppy
he called dad