I spent the day with a serious man.
He was all elbows and straight lines.
Ironed shirt. Pressed suit. Creaseless skin.
Late afternoon he finally sat down, his trousers
riding up to reveal devil red socks. They looked like
Christmas stockings stuffed with disappointment,
strawberry laces wrapped around a bread stick,
a clown dressed as the Grim Reaper.
They were a chocolate chip in a digestive biscuit,
a bar brawl in a nunnery, a firework at a funeral.

© Carl Burkitt 2020