You’re not coming in

Whitney Houston is sitting
in the corner of our living room telling us
she wants to dance with somebody
on repeat and I don’t even know
where I keep my I.D. anymore.
I’d love to try and convince a man
three times my size to let me into
a dark space only to bump into people
I struggle to speak to in the daytime.
When I was 16
I would take my black socks off
and pull them over my white trainers
to pretend to bouncers I was wearing loafers.
I wonder if my teeth could still handle toffee vodka.
I wonder if my legs would now
have the confidence to leave
when they were ready.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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