I walked past a man today
whose scent melted my kneecaps.
He smelt like a hard day’s fun
mixed with apples picked
by the hands of an old lady
planning to make a crumble
for a son she barely sees.
He had the eyes of someone
who had been crying for a while
but there was a cold wind blowing.
He wasn’t whistling,
but I bet he bloody had been,
the half skip in his step
and 600g pot of Cadbury Roses in his hands
gave it away.

© Carl Burkitt 2020