Sunday roast

There’s a sex scene on my TV
and I’m thinking about my grandparents
eating a Sunday roast at The Running Horse.
The whole family was there,
dotted across the top floor on planet round tables,
celebrating their 40th anniversary.
Grandma and Grandpi
had their own table for two
and spent the afternoon smiling
at the universe they had created.
One of the three naked men on my TV
is grunting at the other two
for not letting him get involved
and I’m sighing at the adolescent me
cringing at Grandpi sliding his hand over Grandma’s
when nobody was looking.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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