Just in Case

I’ve been stealing stuff for ages.

Can’t remember the first time any more,

but it was way before

I started secondary school.

Small stuff back then –

            other kids’ rulers,

            fags from Mum’s bag.

And I hang on to loads of the stuff I’ve nicked,

not because I’m one of those freaky hoarders

you see on TV

or anything.

It’s cos I don’t steal stuff you can sell,

nothing of any value:

I mean,

who wants to buy a pair of Top Shop tights,

cheap mascara,

gloopy nail varnish

or pencils pinched from a teacher’s desk?

I take the gear out now and then,

and I

can’t help feeling proud of all the times I got away with it

before they finally caught me.…

    then caught me again and again

            and gave me my very own caseworker.

There’s a knock on the door,

and before I can throw everything back into the shoebox,

Mum’s in my room.

‘I got KFC for dinner,’ she says,

        then stops,

        stares at the stuff

        piled on the bed,

        frowns.

‘What’s all that?’

‘Just some things I found,’ I say.

I chuck the stuff back into the box,

push it underneath the bed.

She rubs her forehead,

letting a load of worry trickle into her face.

Thing is,

that’s not the box she should be worried about.

See,

I’ve got a different one on top of my wardrobe.

I’ve got a box filled with supplies:

a toothbrush, tampons, spare T-shirt, socks, knickers

and a couple of crisp fivers

just in case.

Like,

just in case,

        I ever need to get out of this place

        in a hurry.