My eyes sit above two black bags.
I can’t take them out on a Sunday night,
but they’re constantly filled
with all sorts of rubbish:
the rotting peels of over-ripe thoughts,
empty crisps packets laced with shame dust,
skeletons of anxiety,
the pips of awkwardness,
the skins of fear.
Today they’re stuffed with leftovers
of preparing for the future.
They’re bulging with wrinkled smiles.
© Carl Burkitt 2020