We may have walked past our best friends.
He had a beard, like me, but the black mass
glistened like he takes care of it.
His charcoal tracksuit bottoms fit perfectly.
I bet he calls them his trackies.
The woman he was with had a long puffer jacket
like Arsene Wènger on the sidelines at winter
and the big-rimmed glasses of Deidre Barlow.
Their arms were hooked together
like they’d been dancing all morning.
I couldn’t age them
because we won’t know them until the future,
where he’ll ask me questions like he means it
and she’ll make a wicked savoury pie.
© Carl Burkitt 2021