Departure

On the packed platform at Vauxhall train station
everyone was looking at me. Absolutely everyone.
My perturbed pupils surveyed the scene I was the star of.
The metal teeth in front of my penis were zipped up,
I was shoulder free of bird bum Tipp-Ex, my moustache
was by no means milked up and not a single bean juice blob
sat on my grey hoodie. Nothing.
But still the anoraked man frowned at my face,
the latte-handed lady tutted at my hair,
the front page Metro celebs judged my tummy.
I turned and rushed away from underneath
the departures board, terribly insecure.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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