That morning the sun was out in a way
it made London look like it had just been born.
All stranger smiles and movie vibes.
My feet were gentle springs on pavement.
Walking towards the studio to make you
my palms were Patrick Swayze,
my ears were my best friend Whoopi Goldberg.
I was as light as a ghost, baby.
But when our hands touched I didn’t understand.
My thumbs were stab wounds,
my fingers broken car crash bones.
You were a sloppy corpse, drunk in the afternoon.
London died.
The bowl looked alright though.
I sometimes use it for olives.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
