There’s a zip down the spine
of a man from our street
with teaspoon coloured hair.
I’m yet to open it,
but I daydream about wearing him like a onesie
to shuffle up to Sainsburys
or the dusty roadside barbershop,
past the leafless trees that droop
like his bones on a good day,
and back again.
I want to know how long it takes
for his paper white running shoes to fade
and if the tweed jacket
and Jaffa Cake box blue tracksuit trouser
combo
is a comfy as I tell people it looks.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
