In a Chelsea restaurant
the young boy sits stiffly,
school blazer straight-backed,
hands flat on flannel grey,
darting glances at his father,
whose fingertip command
mesmerises waiters to his side.

Father scrutinizes son
as if lost for youthful words,
adjusts his Versace jacket,
fidgets with two vibrating phones
nestling by his bread plate,
as if to anchor him in a stormy sea
of uncontrollable intimate space.

As soup arrives, his eyes brighten relief
at a ringing summons beside the warm baguette.
BlackBerry-eared, the father engages with
the invisible visitor cyberstepping in to join the meal;
two plates, three people at the table.
The schoolboy swings his foot rhythmically,
hammering the wooden table leg.

The waiter brings a chocolate sundae,
but the boy’s blazer has drooped;
he’s melted like the ice-cream.
Face forlorn, he smiles feebly up
as the father ruffles his hair,
in pretence that bonds
have not just snapped.