Seventeen years

My son’s forehead protrudes
like a crash helmet.
There’s not a blemish on it.
It’s soft like the padding
of a brand new goalie glove.
I imagine it growing freckles.
I imagine it growing into the shape
of an Arsenal Football Club canon.
I imagine it growing across the road
outside a midnight country pub.
Today your skin has been gone
longer than it was here
for us to really get to know it.
I imagine it growing.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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