Author: Struan Robertson
Allocated postcode: EH8
Standing downstairs in the cells
at St. Leonards Police Station,
I turn and watch my father’s profile,
whiskied head held high
as he argues with our captors –
his chin jutting, his arms
the stubborn folded arms of a child.
I wonder, mentally comparing behaviour
and baby-photos, how similar we are,
and remember that the cells we share
are not just those we share tonight.
But later, as he preaches at me
through his single-malt smog,
I forget our blue eyes and cheekbones
as our cells forget their domestic bond
in handcuffs, half-bottles and nights like these.