The skin of a pear is hell to me.
It’s nails down a chalkboard,
a sandpaper condom.
It’s eating a nail file
with a tongue made of fingertips.
It’s small talk in a lift.
It’s an unscheduled family phone call at work.
It’s spring 2004 and all I want to do
is stay in Swindon and get a taxi
home with you.
© Carl Burkitt 2020