A Roman soldier, aged 6.
On the walk to and from school,
I wore armour, a helmet, held a sword and a shield,
each authentically moulded in grey and gold plastic.
Once, outside the bakery,
a second time, on Chapel Lane.
Both times, punched hard in the face.
Both times by the same boy,
who occassionally walked home in my shoes.
I had no idea why he picked on me.
It seemed he lived a charmed life.
But maybe not?