Hands Where We Can See Them

Routine, they call it,

and the word wears body armour.

Same corner, same three lads,

the same slow ceremony.

Hands where we can see them.

Cheek against the brick.

It's for your safety, sunshine.

You fit a description.

They took him in for nothing

on an ordinary evening —

the van, the cell, the statement.

He went in on his feet.

Hands where we can see them.

Turn your pockets inside out.

Nothing found again —

that only shows you're careful.

Name. Age. Reason for walking.

As if walking needs a reason.

Six men were in the building.

The statement says he fell.

Their memories agree

to the same eight words:

"We found him fallen when we came in."

Hands where they can see them —

so we stood outside the station,

every open hand held high,

and nothing in our hands but names.