If I was forced to eat a part of my own body
I would probably go for my quads.
They’re the right amount of meaty.
They feel like the kind of steaks I scoffed
before eating meat started making me queasy.
My head hair would be too curly to choke down,
my brain is full of rubbish, my skin is too dry
and my arse it too fine to get rid of.
I’d definitely go for the quads, they remind me
of the days I used to run through crowds,
sweat my way past whistles and horns,
cried in your raincoat skin at mile 13,
rejected the slice of pepperoni pizza from
the pensioner outside her terrace house
holding her Keep Going, Luvvies sign.
I’d reminisce over a slice of my quads,
they taste like trying.
© Carl Burkitt 2020