The couple of old men
are sat side by side
like two halves of a Twix
in a pub bench wrapper.
Their shoulders daren’t touch
but their hearts are screaming
through their forward facing mouths
and painfully strained peripherals.
As I walk past
with my 7-week-old son,
worry lines soften and pint glasses rise
and every word they want to say
dance silently like the ribbons
of a shredded dictionary in a breeze.
© Carl Burkitt 2020