Brighton on a Tuesday

The pier was packed with whispering ghosts.
Empty teacups span, desperate for milk and sugar.
Rock shops shut their doors,
disappointment spiralled through their innards.
Wet dogs kept themselves to themselves and vegan
restaurants opened Wednesday to Sunday.
Salt sprinkled on chips like dandruff on my shoulders.
Waves stretched up to rain clouds,
bending back like your nine-week-old eyelids
swallowing the ocean for the first time.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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