There was

a wardrobe of floral shirts,
a fake love of toffee vodka,
football boots held together with masking tape,
a Welsh telephone box filled with urine,
a moped driven into the sun,
a foggy three year trip to the seaside,
a dinner plate across the head,
floor nuts, a small joint of beef,
800 BMX rides up a hill with no peak,
a wooden beam and a spotless house,
phone calls, phone calls, phone calls,
the opening of a creaky hinge of a closed mind,
pop-up restaurants, softball bats,
a star falling through a river, time, ears,
a melting urge of tingling skin,
an inevitability wrapped in metal rings.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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