He has the fingers of a man
who picks his nose when he’s alone,
the eyelashes of a man
who flicked Dijon mustard into his eyeball,
the pert bum of a man
who pooed himself at his work desk,
the hairline of a man
who sweats the small stuff,
the toes of a man
who walks in circles,
the shinbones of a man
who dangles his feet over ledges,
the core of a woman
who goes and goes and goes.

© Carl Burkitt 2020