One has a fistful of dog turd.
One has a book under their arm
as thick as a Ploughman’s sandwich
from a village pub called something
like The Owl & Ratchet.
One is eating a Calippo like they’re on death row.
One is asking her child to
stop leaning on the glass, stop leaning
on the glass, stop leaning on the glass.
One is up a tree and on the clouds
and in eyes and around the corner.
One is waiting.

© Carl Burkitt 2021