‘The blind man and a Pole’

\begin{Poem}
{
A blind man.
Arms outstretched,
a fruit seller perhaps ?
Selling brown vegetables,
With white flesh inside.
Is love of a white mother
any different, I wonder,
From the love of a black nanny,
Or for that matter, from
minha querida mãe marrom ?
my dear, brown, mother ?
}

{
A car washer.
In the car park at Petersfield,
Outside the Waitrose supermarket.
A Pole I believe he is, and others are,
Holding a bucket of cold water, and a sponge,
Removing the dirt off the wind screen.
Cars of all colours washed and waxed for five Pounds.
The sky and the lightning,
pass messages from their loved ones in Poland.
Is the love of a Pole any different from my love ?
}
\end{poem}

\footnotemark{Petersfield is 60 miles south of from London and an hour by train from London Waterloo.}