Hairy hands making mashed potato
into a dance.
Scissor fingers soften
at the sight of rhythmic wrists,
clenched jaws replaced
with memory foam cheeks.
The golden days of powdered Smash
float under our chins
like secret pork pies beneath the lettuce
at the back of the vegetable crisper.
You fold butter into King Edward
like peace signs across my forearms.
The roughness of your palms
melt my shoulders apart,
my chest is a gravy tub opening –
a tickle of the nose,
a bouncing thumbs up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020