My shit

In 2018 I was trampled by cows.
People say things and move on
with no clue about the day they’ve exploded.
The dishwasher can’t exist
when I don’t know
how many cows stepped on her.
The teeth my son hasn’t grown yet
are every bone I imagine she broke.
I can’t watch the telly
until I’ve been told every cow’s name
and whether or not they were actually bulls.
The cars outside my house have udders,
the postman is a rump steak.
How can I ever walk on grass again?

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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