G20 at Canning Town Station

They cluster in 4s and 5s
decorated in flourescent yellow,
trunchons dangling at their sides.

Hopping from foot to foot
they scan crowds, stopping
dreadlocks and patchwork coats

to search bags, empty pockets
look suspectingly at sets of keys
and full canteens as dangerous weapons.

My nose ring mustn't be big enough,
my curled hair not the matted mess
they'd expect from a protesting terrorist

so they look past me to stop pink hair,
no passing thoughts that my bulging bag
may be filled with bombs and gasoline.