You’re gripping a spoon like a giant
strangling the throat of a villager.
Their hair is thick Weetabix
spread like a goatee across your chin.
I imagine you holding a pool cue,
forgetting if you are reds or yellows,
stacking pound coins on the wooden trim.
Do you remember the pub menu from yesterday?
The one you scrunched up and chewed
where the words Skin-on fries, £4.00 were
sat minding their own business.
You will have a heart in your palm
one day, whether you like it or not.

© Carl Burkitt 2021