Brusque eyebrows gesticulate disaffection
shrugged from a deadpan demeanour,
bristling with iron-filing stubble.
Belated cheap aftershave smells defeat
loitering smoke-like, bitter inhalations
for poorly timed passers by.  

Shabbily suited, shoes scuffed,
giving the impression he’d been dragged
unconscious into place. At his post
to cast a disparaging eye over the public.
And yet, amid this flotsam and jetsam
of a man, one thing demands respect.

Pinned to a creased lapel, it gleams
under the fluorescents, reflecting
self-importance like a lighthouse beam.
Worn as a medal of honour,  
with all the pomp and ceremony
of a war veteran. Worthless to all but him,

Brian it reads, emblazoned boldly across
the plastic, at the top it says Security.