it’s hard feeling like you’ve lost.
Like the first 45 minutes were a waste –
especially when those minutes are
days and weeks and months.
When it’s raining
it’s hard to imagine being dry again.
When I’m stood in a porch:
ten slugs for toes, my sleeves dripping
to the ground, my head melting into my neck,
I think about a dog’s tail
dancing to the sound of whistle,
having no concept of the end.
© Carl Burkitt 2021