I’ve never seen a kneecap
in a curry house.
Leg skin commonly lives in
the tunnel of a trouser,
but last night my eye
blinked at a samosa and smiled
to the peripheral view of dinner shorts.
A set of pins not penned in
by the suggested dress code
of faceless men from the Dead Age.
I imagined wearing a tuxedo
in a bubble bath, a fez to a funeral,
a set of goalie gloves to a cocktail bar,
a smile to a conversation
where I’m present but not seen.

© Carl Burkitt 2020