I miss mornings of music festivals
when it looks like the world is over.
Corpses with a pulse clutching toilet rolls
and meandering like retiring Pac-Man ghosts
knackered from a pointless chase.
The smell of bacon and eggs
crashing into the sound of cymbals
and bass drums testing if they’re alive
and a parliament of night owls ignoring the sun
has risen to keep hooting about the past
with their feathers wrapped around warm scrumpy.
I miss the shadows of people I knew
making shapes their bodies whispered
they didn’t know how to do.
© Carl Burkitt 2020