A tiny thug kicked me in the hand.
It had no cause for violence
but went for it six times.
It had never even met me
but clearly knew all about me.
Each smack was a brush stroke
across a painting I thought was finished.
If my hand was a football it would’ve punctured.
If my fingers were piñatas they’d be
a thousand flying toffees.
I kept going back for more
but the tiny thug kept me waiting.

© Carl Burkitt 2020