Posh lads often have gentle eyes.
Even when they’re hench. Even when they’re serial killers.
It’s not so much that the other lads –
the one’s that grew up in a soupy vat of generational trauma –
are more likely to trounce you over a few rounds of Queensbury Rules;
it’s more that they can look at you the same way an entire tower block can look at you;
a tower block that juts from a far horizon but every window has a telescope trained on you.
A posh boy’s glare doesn’t carry that weight,
even if he’s perfectly capable and willing to beat you to death over the last pain au chocolat at Marks.
The skinny kid in the tracky carries the weight of so much unwritten history.
You can either look back with your own or look away.