Every time I step on you,
water trickling from parts unknown
down squeaky clean quads
and lime-scented calves,
I wish I could return the favour.
I wish I could lie all dry
staring up at your fluffy stuff, desperate.
Desperate to be useful.
Desperate to feel your heels
dig in to my chest until one of us whispers,
See you tomorrow, filthy bastard.
© Carl Burkitt 2020